These unassuming little rock plants made their home on the other side of the Charles River, in a park in Charlestown. On the day I passed through, the sun shone brightly in the blue sky – the kind of blue reserved for August and September, and that you never quite see the same way until the end of summer returns again. They softened the circumference of a fountain, where fish spat out water in arching rivulets, and the soothing sound of the splash drowned out any distant traffic. After crossing over from Boston, it was like another world – quieter, more serene, less busy and frantic. Here, there was peace. Here, there was beauty. Here, there was joy. It was a sort of oasis, afforded when the heart was most in need – of what, I could not right off tell, I would only know it when I found it, when it was time for the universe to deliver what had been lacking. Some things cannot be forced, like the blossoms on these tiny plants, which would only be coaxed into bloom by the fullness and the heat of the sun.
