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Growing up, we'd have family over for wonderful Sunday afternoon swim and cookout parties, in the tradition of Sunday dinner at my grandparent's house in Oklahoma. By the end I'll be mentally tired, maybe even physically exhausted-like my mom, I'm spent after most social interactions.

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My mind is so full of daydreaming, of business all its own, that the entire process of starting out on our journey is one of peace, of preparing for the day before me. I don't pretend to know what's going through my mom's mind in those first few minutes to Ambergate I don't care to. The drive will be almost an hour, and although it's nearly eleven in the morning, I'm still waking up.

The landscaper she hired to do the foundation beds at the new house said she had to go check it out, and she's been waiting weeks for me and my most recent post-school-year visit until she did. This is my first visit after my parents moved forty minutes north from my childhood home in Chanhassen, Minnesota-where she had taught me to garden-and Mom and I are driving to a new nursery she's heard of called Ambergate Gardens. I know I get it from her, the knowledge that in silences, perfect, still silences, we can slip into and out of ourselves and our environments as easily as putting on a pair of mesh shorts on the way out to garden. Mom's got some light jazz playing in the car, not too loud, just enough so that if I might want to say something she'll be able to hear me-and just loud enough that if we don't want to, we won't have to say anything. Of the specific perfection planned for its kind.įor ten minutes I watch the parade of telephone poles, Lutheran churches, a bison farm, antique shops, a horse stable that supplies trained horses to the Minneapolis police department, and the occasional nondescript restaurant open only for dinner. All created beings begin to die as soon as they begin to live,Īnd no one expects any one of them to become absolutely perfect,