People gathered at Hope Garden on Sunday afternoons to stroll along dirt and cement paths, admiring the botanical beauty, whether they had roots in horticulture, were looking for the perfect venue for a wedding or anniversary, or were just intrigued by the elaborate maze, the carefully crafted arrangements of greenery, seasonal flowers, manicured trees and bushes all picture ready.
It was the heart-shaped archways, however, that garnered the most attention, the green vines winding their way up the arches, sprouting clusters of pink flowers, excess foliage tapered for practical reasons, not cosmetic ones. Lingering visitors studied the display, moving up and down the long walkway, chatting with friends or silently gazing, consuming the sweet smells, awing at nature’s magic trick that allowed white flowers where there had only been pink, that allowed some vines to keep their vibrant color and others to turn brown.
And as the day progressed, sun and shadow played, painting the ground with impressions, some clear, some muddled. The interaction like a song that felt familiar but was unrecognizable, its rhythm, tone, sound stirring the soul, the heart’s wanting for love as surprising, imperfect, and patient as nature, the kind achieved only by surrendering to clarity and confusion.