Summer in the City

It’s summer in New Orleans. And that means it’s hot. And the humidity is so high, you need gills to breathe. While tending an Oriental Garden that I have tended since 1989, I find a peace that smoothes all of the rough edges of life. I feel and smell rain coming. I know that I will not finish my work in the garden. But the plants need to be washed; so does the air around them. As the wind signals the rain’s approach, the temperature drops. I lay on the dense pennyroyal that I use as a ground cover and close my eyes to feel the weather change. The smell of the pennyroyal promises excitement and newness. First, I feel the barometric pressure dropping, it allows me to be lighter, to feel the air changing around me. And then the smells of change start. I can smell the Gulf of Mexico flying in on hummingbird wings, the salt settles on my skin, I can taste it on my lips. I can smell a fishy smell, a smell of sea creatures older than time. As I let myself ride on the wind, I can sense a communion with the water that is riding in on southern clouds. I can feel the air that had been over South America a short time ago, reaching New Orleans and bathing me in foreign connections and somehow they did not feel foreign at all. I can smell the oneness that the wind brought with it. I can hear it whisper, no, not whisper, more like insistently talk to me--”We are one, we bring you pieces of yourself that you have scattered in the past. We bring you back to yourself.” When the first giant drops splash on my forehead, I feel refreshed. I wonder if I might stay in the pennyroyal, being massaged by its leaves, its scent being released by my weight and the rain while it drank in water. It welcomes me, asks me to enjoy the rain with it and I quietly breathe thanks. The rain is brief, about 20 minutes or so--like so many summer showers here. The air is clean afterward, the garden is bright, I dry quickly while watching the steam rising from the boulders so carefully placed as to look natural. All of our senses are tingling--mine and the plants together, a communion of trust, beauty and peace.
Once again the garden refreshes my spirit and tells me of my place in the world.