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It was a Sunday, and I had gone to church that morning. The pastor spoke about the concept of a “beauty walk”—that is, taking walk out in the world with the sole purpose of noticing and appreciating beauty. One can take a beauty walk on the streets of a city or the trails of a forest preserve or the paths of a garden or even the hallways of an office building. Beauty is everywhere, in everything.

I took my own beauty walk through the snowy Anderson Gardens that day, and wrote this small poem afterwards. The light gradually faded outside the large windows as I sat there, writing, thinking; the outlines of the pine trees grew dim, the patterns in the gravel less distinct; the whites and greens and blues of the world drained to grays and blacks.

When I left, I followed the deep tracks in the snow I had made on my way in.

I love the winter, and I love the snow. It blankets, it quiets, it calms; it is beautiful, it is stunning, its shining crystals, its spinning flurries; the ice which hangs in spears, which covers in treacherous sheets; the ice which claims, serenely, the surfaces of our lakes, ponds, and streams…and even the rivers, on those coldest days—even the Rock River freezes over.

Now the snow is melted, the sun is shining, we have been granted some warmth; the river has swelled, surging, drowning the bike path, invading our ordered spaces, breaking free; spring is on the way, flowers are on the way, new life is on the way. I cannot wait.

What better time for a beauty walk?

* * *

Beauty Walk

Go

and notice beauty

anywhere

In the gardens,

beauty has been cultivated

everywhere

Each tree, planted

each rock, placed

each path, drawn

And don’t you suppose

elsewhere

it’s the same?

Perhaps not drawn

by human hands

but still—drawn? 

Don’t you suppose that beauty

lies in wait

everywhere?

In every speck

of this universe

it waits

Do you see it?

can you hear it?

feel it, (flowing, pulsing?)

Just try,

if you’d like—

it’s there.

—Matt Eighmy

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In the Guest House (pt 2)

In an atmosphere of rest

It is easy to rest

In a place of reflection

It is easy to reflect

In a place of chaos,

or violence

distraction

or fear

anger or

anxiety

It is easy to become:

Chaotic, violent,

distracted or fearful;

angry or anxious—

We must strive to build places—

homes

schools

offices

parks

cafes

grocery stores

gardens—

That are:

peaceful, beautiful,

loving, compassionate,

joyful, thoughtful,

tranquil, or exciting,

elegant, rejuvenating…

But in times and places

that are not so

we must strive

to remember

to be peaceful, to be good,

to be joyful and confident

And

it can be helpful to remember

those havens of goodness

as we sojourn through

our days

and strive to build

a better world—

I often remember the gardens;

I will often remember this house.

—Matt Eighmy

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This poem is a piece of what I wrote during my stay. I hope you enjoy.

In the Guest House (pt 1)

To sleep and to wake

in an atmosphere

of such tranquility

and elegance,

simple and clean—

My bare feet adore

the feel

of the tatami

floors; golden

woven rush—

All of my senses

soak, and delight

in the wooden soaking tub—

To sleep and to wake

in an atmosphere

of reflection and repose

I think—

People are like plants—

we respond to our

environment—

Too much sun, a plant will die

Too little sun, a plant will wither

just the same

Just the right amount of sun, of water—

a plant will thrive;

We must recognize

that our environment—

the built world, the landscape

the sum total of what we call

“nature”

and what we call

“man-made” or “artificial”

In short, the space that surrounds us—

these three dimensions

we move through—

Our environment

is so vital

to our lives

to our beings…

Of course, to our bodies

as we breathe, in, out

as we walk, run,

and move, (or not),

as we eat and drink—

But also of course

to our hearts

and minds;

our moods

and tendencies…

We could shape this world

in any way we want

any way imaginable

we have that power

So, look around—

is this how we want it?

—Matt Eighmy

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“As cold sets in I begin envisioning all the dormant energy waiting underground, in the buds, resting, restoring and preparing for a new season of growth. Imagine if you could actually see the energy; it would be a marvelous glow. That’s how I manage the cold and grey!” 

—Tim Gruner, Garden Curator & Head of Horticulture

I loved his words so much I decided to write a poem inspired by them. Here it is, and I hope you enjoy it.

Buds beneath snow

Buds beneath snow

the dormant, the resting

the energy building;

It has fallen, for now,

decayed, retreated,

faded;

Fallen, and rotted,

and left—

bare, or hidden,

beneath snow, beneath earth.

Underground, out of sight,

resting,

preparing,

all winter, as the days march on,

day after day of cold,

each day expected

each day known

by the plants, for they

have been here much, much longer

have known the cold, were born for it

born to weather it;

they are calm, they rest, they build,

up and up,

each day perhaps the energy is higher,

slightly higher,

slightly closer,

slightly more ready…

to burst.

Up, up, up! Fanning out, flowering.

The green first, and quickly followed

by the purple! the blue! the red orange yellow!

Exquisite, what a joy, what a lark! The abundance,

the beauty, the return—

return to air, fresh air, the breezes

on leaves, on stalks, on petals—

the sunshine! Soaking in the sun, after months

of thirst—

the sun again!

For now, we rest,

we restore,

we prepare,

we hide—

but imagine

if you could actually see

the underground energy…

what a marvelous glow!

That is how we manage,

the grey and the cold.

—Matt Eighmy 

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Here is a poem I wrote after walking through the gardens last week, with some of these thoughts in mind. Happy Thanksgiving to all, and let us be thankful for this beautiful Earth, and all of its many gifts.

Moon in Ice

The architecture of limbs

Is laid bare,

But the pines

still hold their green—

Calmly, coolly,

Evergreen.

I walk through the gardens

At night,

Snow and ice, here and there

Along the paths.

No lights but distant street lamps

And a bright, white, cold

Half moon.

The pond is frozen, thinly.

The ice reflects the moon.

I stand on the zig zag bridge,

Next to a pine of medium height,

Who is rooted in the cold ground,

Impassive in the cold.

We are part of this Earth—

Connected—

As connected as tree roots

To dirt.

We have these brains,

These eyes, these hands;

And now these screens,

Phones, cars;

The digital, electronic;

The space ships…

But still, however tricked out

However imaginative, creative,

Whatever we might build

Or dream…

Still, here, now, we live and die

On this Earth;

We eat and drink the Earth,

We breathe it in and out;

We are built of its materials,

And so

Is everything we know.

Surrounded by concrete,

Streets and yards,

Friends and neighbors,

We live within our human systems,

And, perhaps, forget…

That we are of this place

It is in our blood, and we in its…

We neglect to take a moment

To observe—

The moon reflected in ice

And the architecture of limbs.

—Matthew Eighmy 

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I didn’t see what she meant.

She was a young mother

With her young children,

And a young man,

Perhaps the children’s father,

Perhaps her husband.

She was pointing down at the creek,

Saying this several times, until her kids

Finally looked—

“Look how gracefully these leaves

are just flowing downstream.”

After the family had moved on

I walked over

And peered into the water,

at the spot she had indicated.

Yet it seemed to me

That the leaves weren’t flowing;

They were stuck

The water was flowing—

Then, later,

I looked down

at a different stream,

and more stuck leaves—

I wondered—

The leaves appear stuck

To me

But really they are flowing,

Stuck now, in this moment,

But flowing soon, washed away soon—

What else appears stuck,

          but really is flowing?

Maybe everything stuck

          is really

          flowing?

—Matthew Eighmy

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This large oak

Arcs gracefully up and over a stream

And is supported by a crutch.

The base of the crutch

Is nearly in the stream.

Roughly at the point where the crutch

Meets the oak

The trunk fractures

Into three large branches

Then splits, and splits again, 

Into countless shoots,

which curl and curve,

Up and down,

Bearing leaves.

The leaves have mostly fallen now.

The gnarled oak is nearly bare,

Leaning on its crutch,

A living thing,

A work of art,

A friend.

It reaches into empty space,

Into unclaimed sun,

Supported, crutched—

Loved.

—Matthew Eighmy

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The nights are getting colder, the days shorter, the trees more bare. In the gardens, the season is nearly over: the last day we are open to the public is this Sunday. We are no longer so concerned with clearing the paths of leaves—there are fewer leaves to clear, and fewer visitors to mind them. Instead, we are guarding against the cold. At the end of each day we check each of the dozens of outdoor water spigots that dot the gardens, making sure that there is still a steady dripping of water from each one, making sure none are frozen. We check the heat lamps that stand sentinel over the many water pumps, and we throw tarps over outdoor valves to blanket them and keep them warm. 

This week we have also been catching koi and moving them from the smaller ponds (the one by the the Guest House, and the one by the West Waterfall), to the two larger ponds, where they will spend the winter, hibernating beneath ice. We caught a few strangers too, chubs and blue gills, which were carefully carried to and released in Spring Creek.

I wrote a haiku back in mid-September, back when the trees were still leafy and green, the air was still warm, and there were still mosquitos buzzing around to bother us. Hardly any trees had begun to change then, just a few yellow ones here and there. Now, the show is almost over. How quickly our glorious fall flies by us.

I hope this haiku can be like a little dream, a reminder of the early fall, the leafy green, the calm; and of all that has passed in just a few short weeks, all the blaze of color, the steady cooling of temperatures; and I hope it can lend some perspective as we stand on the other side of all the changing, stunning beauty, and face the snow and cold to come.

Before we know it, it will be spring again.

Sunshine slants through green

MATTHEW EIGHMY

Early light, cool air

Early morning, early fall

Spreading mulch, I smile

Have a lovely weekend.

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Bright Ones, Dull Ones

So many colors

In the garden, in fall

More even than spring,

I think

Fall is heaven, the harvest

Is death, death is heaven

Followed by winter, the cold,

The white

White will blanket

But before the blanket,

The dance,

The Fall,

The explosion

Of yellow, orange, red, pink

The flames,

The blazing sunset

Dramatic, glorious

Tempered

By the quiet, steady evergreens

Who do not mind

Are not disturbed

They live on, patient,

Not judging the others

For their histrionics,

Their clamor;

And the bright ones

Do not scorn the evergreens,

Do not think themselves

Superior for their brightness,

Their color—

They do not find the pines dull.

And what, what, what am I?

A bright one, a changer?

A maple, burning red

Stripped bare

Budding green

Burning red again?

Or a pine, evergreen?

Ever green?

It’s all eternal anyways

It’s all ephemeral, too

It’s all One, and it’s all Infinite,

And it’s all finite.

What am I, I, I?

A gardener, spreading mulch.

—Matthew Eighmy

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