A Wistful Walk in the Garden

On a recent weekday afternoon, I visited one of my favorite places in New York City, the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. When I passed through the entrance at the always hectic Eastern Parkway, I immediately surrendered myself to the spell of this nature sanctuary.

As I walked along the path in the Osborne Garden, a formal Italianate green space, I listened to the echoing calls of various bird species hidden in the shrubs and trees. Looking upward, I noticed large squirrel nests, or “dreys,” built high in naked tree branches. Buds on different plants promised the colors and scents of spring. Near the end of my restorative stroll, the scent of pine needles welcomed me as I stepped into the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden, arguably the most beloved spot of the institution. (Coincidentally, horror author H. P. Lovecraft, the subject of my most recent book, adored this site.)

A melancholy reminder darkened this otherwise happy sojourn. When my wife began working at the Brooklyn Museum ten years ago, I regularly started visiting the Garden. During the COVID-19 pandemic, I became a member. This recent trip to the Garden likely would be my last for the immediate future. In early February, the Brooklyn Museum announced massive staff layoffs. Unfortunately, my wife lost her job. This came atop my own career pause. Needing to curtail unnecessary expenses and acknowledging that I’m unlikely to find myself in this stretch of Brooklyn on a predictable basis, I’ll reluctantly let my membership to the Garden lapse. And that’s a shame.

Although I’ve worked in New York for nearly two decades, I never experienced a true kinship and affection for the city until I became a frequent user–a very minor patron, if you will–of its cultural treasures. My periodic escapes to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden belonged to that personal transition. For that, I’ll be forever grateful.