In the Garden

For now the winter is past, the rains are over and gone (Song of Songs 2:11).

We took the train toward Rouen, along with a steady flow of other Monet enthusiasts, and spilled out into the center of Vernon, an adjacent town. We hopped on a local bus that wound its way along the country road as bikers peddled behind, and soon we arrived to the start of Giverny. Since it was almost lunch, we paused at a cafe with a small garden in front, just a taste of the bursts of color we would soon find.

When we finally found Monet’s home and the water lily pond, the path beckoned us into the cool shade. People were quietly reading, painting, capturing the magic (as if that’s possible) and reveling in the boundless beauty. This is the garden of Song of Songs. This is the healing haven of flower and water and paintbrush and pen. Simple and yet bursting with spring. Thank you, Claude, for inspiring multitudes to gather in the sanctuary of nature—may it be so for generations to come.

Sleepy and a bit restless, we arrived at the train station, knowing the urban bustle would greet us at the end of the line. As we waited, a family of four sat at a high boy table playing cards and invited us to join. Although we lived oceans away, it felt like we knew them and I realized later why. I immediately noticed the mother’s short stubble of shorn hair and the lowering of their gaze when Jojo asked more about missing school for their family month long excursion through Europe. Carpe Diem, my heart said, yes…take this time together, savor this as the winter will come as it does for all, some in the spring of their days. Still light from the beauty of the garden, I felt the simultaneous intermingling of sadness caught in my throat. And this is the garden of Song of Songs too—all fleeting—and still we sing in trembling wonder.