Tanaguchi Gardens -- Austin, TX

My journey to the gardens began innocently enough, my digital camera in hand, hoping to take some pictures before it got too dark or the light ran out. I do this, seasonally, because I'm always fascinated with the gardens at different times of year.

I took a few pictures of the purple tropical lilies at the entrance to the gardens, then walked down the paths descending the hill, until I reached the the small hill overlooking the largest pond at the bottom. I climbed up the limestone rocks and stood there for a moment, under the big tree. I leaned back onto the tree, and surveyed the view before me.

There was a cool breeze, very refreshing after the sultry heat of the afternoon, and the sun began to set, its rays no longer blinding. I wrapped my arms around the branches of the tree and closed my eyes for a moment, kicking off my shoes. Instantly, the stresses that had clouded up my mind for weeks seemed to dissipate. I stood there for a moment, quietly watching the ponds, listening to the birds in the trees, and feeling the breeze through my hair, and felt suddenly relieved. That's when I decided to document the entire evening as best I could.

I have a hard time explaining exactly what happened. There was an energy in the rocks that seemed to pass through my feet. My lungs breathed easier and my feet relaxed on the rough and uneven rock below them. Above me, the trees filtered the late afternoon sun, and the light danced down upon me.

My goal was to take a picture of the view, to share what I saw and preserve it for others, so I snapped a photo of the tree and the light and the way it bounced. It was only as an afterthought that I considered taking a picture of myself. I'm not particularly photogenic, but I was trying to capture the moment, so I snapped a quick picture, not actually intending to use it. I wasn't planning on looking at the camera, either, but I did.

It's funny how digital cameras always seem to catch the brown spot in my right eye. Can you see it? It's over there in the corner. It's not that obvious in real life, but cameras have some imagination when it comes to processing of color.

Off to the side of the hill on which I stood, the rocks form rudimentary steps to the path below. The ruggedness of it is in keeping with the natural landscapes of the hill country of Texas, with limestone making its own paths up and down cliffs and hills.

The ivy in the background is found all over the Tanaguchi gardens, and its verdant brilliance makes a marked contrast to the soft white of the limestone.

After a while, I climbed down my hill, leaving my shoes behind. Tanaguchi is a much different place barefoot than it is with shoes. The touch of it, the feeling on the bottom of my feet, adds another dimension to the visit.

The sun was going down, but the garden still had visitors, most of whom looked at me strangely (or enviously?) for walking around barefoot, but on the smooth pathways, it's easy to see things to step over or watch out for. I walked around the path, looking for the koi. Most of them, I discovered later, had been relocated to the rose garden that adjoins this one, and the rest were generally shy.

I always feel bad for fish in ponds, and particularly koi. They're so vibrant and beautiful that kids like to poke their hands in the water and try to catch them. If I were a koi, I'd be shy, too. Not that I need to be a fish to accomplish that.

The trees reflected on the water, creating this distorted image. The koi stood still for a few seconds while I took his picture, and then he swam away.

I walked down the path that curves around the pond, until I got to the other side. There, on the other side of the pond, you can see my hill and my tree. Imagine me, standing in front of the tree with my arms around the branches. Maybe it's logical for everyone passing by to look at me like I was nuts.

From the opposite side of the pond is a path of stepping stones through the water. I always walk over them, to prove to myself that I can, but I don't usually attempt it with a digital camera. It made me nervous this time, and my bare feet paused for a long time on each small stone before attempting to move to the next.

This picture is my favorite, despite the fact that it illustrates that my toes are the color of limestone. It reminds me of that cliché, "No man is an island." Standing on that tiny piece of rock surrounded by water, physically separated from everyone as well as everything, makes me question the idiom.

There's a loneliness and vulnerability to being on my own, and there are times when I have to consciously make an effort to ask for help when I know I can't handle a situation on my own. On the other hand, I take no small amount of pride in the fact that, generally, I can handle my life by myself, I can stand on my tiny piece of earth and balance without falling into the water.

I know a lot of people who were never able to do that.

I made my way finally, step by step, back to solid ground. As evening approached, it seemed I couldn't get away from people; I couldn't find the solitude I was looking for, so I took a back path up the cliff and climbed some limestone stairs.

I crossed under the bridge and through a bit of brush and came out near the hidden waterfall. I always forget about it until I hear the sound of rushing water in the distance, and then I have to take a few paths before I find it.