was in high school the first time I went to the St. Louis Botanical Gardens. It was for their annual Japanese Festival, and even though I didn't relish the thought of spending the day looking at a bunch of flowers, I went anyway because I was leaving for college that August and it was important to my mom that we do more "family" things before I went.
The Botanical Gardens have this really amazing, very large Japanese section that was privately donated by a wealthy Asian some years back. The centerpiece is a gently-curving lake so large that you cannot see the other side, and along its path all manner of hidden treasures are scattered, including a zen rock garden and a hidden pagoda slipped inside a thicket of trees.
I found the pagoda as I was wandering through the cultured wilderness. The front of the structure is at the head of a grassy knoll sloping down to the lake via a series of carefully-placed stones. They had decorated the hideaway with paper fish and round lanterns for the festival, and right at the lakefront was a giant tree gently releasing large white flowers into the water with each passing breeze. I told my parents to come pick me up later and I spent a full hour just lying on that hill, watching the flowers skim the surface of the water and float out beyond my vision.
In hindsight I realize that this was my first-ever moment of adult inner calm, that sense of utter peace and serenity that can only be understood after experiencing the stress and terror of the grown-up world. But at the time all I could think was, "Jesus Christ, I wish I could stay here in this exact spot for the rest of my life."
