Nothing But Flowers

By Mike Press

She was sitting on a bench reading the New York Times. The day before’s Times. I sat down on the bench opposite, reading my phone.

In the quiet hum of an early Manhattan morning, the community garden, nestled between brownstones, tenements and a couple of glass fronted condos, was an oasis of calm. An allotment area was laid out neatly below the mural that splashed vibrant colours across an otherwise plain brick wall. Tomatoes hung on the vine next to sunflowers standing tall in the sun now breaking over the buildings behind. Birds chattered from their hidden perches. Four wooden benches were positioned towards the edge of the garden, open to the sidewalk, inviting passersby to rest awhile and enjoy the tranquillity.

As the woman turned the page of her newspaper, she glanced over the top of her glasses. Her face, serene with the hint of a smile, was framed by tightly curled black hair, shot through with strands of silver. Though she might have been close to sixty, the spark in her eyes suggested otherwise. Her glasses, round and slightly worn, began to slide down her nose. With a gentle push, she eased them back up and turned her gaze toward me.

‘Where you from? Ain’t seen your face ‘round here before.’ Leaning forward, she closed the paper, folding it neatly on her lap as the cool morning breeze rustled the leaves above us.

‘Scotland,’ I said.

‘Ah, Scotland.’ Pausing, she closed her eyes and smiled as if pulling up something from her memory. ‘That’s a whole ocean away. What’s got you comin’ here?’

‘The peace, the flowers. Been walking for an hour and needed to sit down.’ It was true; the warmth of the morning sun on my face and the earthy scent of the garden brought a sense of contentment I hadn't felt since leaving home.

This community garden on the lower east side of Manhattan attracted me with its tranquillity and its hope. A garden won by the community from the avarice of developers. A political victory for local people, creating space where nature can be nurtured and neighbours connected.

‘Mm-hmm, peace and flowers, that's right. It wasn’t easy, but we made it happen.’ She gently nodded, closing her eyes again and smiling, perhaps remembering the campaigning, the lobbying, the marching, the public meetings, the leafleting, the struggle and eventual sense of joy when they made it happen.

‘You live nearby?’

‘Yeah, I got a spot in a hostel two blocks over on Avenue B. Been there a while. Used to live up in Harlem, but things happen, you know? Families, they’re never easy, and anyways I like my own company. But this here. This garden. Right here. This is my real home.’

Her eyes wandered to the sunflowers over by the wall.

‘Every little thing needs its spot under the sun, a chance to show what it can do. Just gotta mix the right earth, put in some elbow grease,’ she paused, her voice warm, tinged with quiet strength. ‘And you need that stubborn kind of hope that won't let you quit. That’s how you get a garden that’s more than just pretty – but a garden of blooming defiance.’

It was here, among the plants, the chattering birds, and gentle hum of New York just beyond, I learned that you don’t need much for home and hope.

Nothing but flowers.