After a leisurely breakfast of granola and yogurt, I dressed Joan in her shoes, coat, and hat, and together we ventured out for a pre-spring walk through the botanical gardens.
It was far too early for the garden to be in full bloom—only the crocuses had made an appearance, and even they were sparse, their purple and yellow heads poking timidly from the earth. We wandered slowly through the garden, taking in the peacefulness of the early morning. One of the few pleasures of this time of year, I reflected, is how the absence of leaves on most trees allows you to appreciate their skeletal forms—an intricate, delicate architecture that is usually hidden behind thick foliage. I imagined how Yushkevich, the painter, might have captured this scene: the bare branches stretching like fingers toward the sky, their complex, twisting forms dancing against the gray backdrop of early spring.
Towards the end of our walk, I chose a bench, and we sat in companionable silence for a while, talking intermittently. For a brief moment, the quiet felt like a balm. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic, a soft reminder of the city’s pulse. It was nothing like the profound silence of our old home in the woods of Michigan, where the stillness had taken me three full days to acclimate to. I still miss that place, the way the quiet enveloped everything, almost as if the world outside had ceased to exist.
I snapped a few photos to share later, primarily to show the stark, almost desolate beauty of the gardens in their winter dormancy.
Returning home, I set to work preparing a hearty beef stew for dinner, accompanied by a fresh salad.
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