This week I’m remembering being in Paris. It had such symmetry to it that I wouldn’t usually be attracted to but found very appealing. At Le Jardin des Tuileries the trees and shrubs were pruned to perfection and aligned so meticulously around the grass. This order was contrasted by the stark wildness of the flowers in the gardens that seemed chaotically scattered and whose intricate beauty was accentuated by the relative emptiness that surrounded them.
Paris was romantic and I found myself infatuated by its calculated aesthetic. But now I am home surrounded by the reckless abundance of August in New Brunswick. Summer here is becoming overripe. It is thick and sweet with the wild growth of July that is starting to fade into the enchanted rust of autumn. It is magical and bursting and free. I crave no order, no sparseness and no emptiness. I am happy for my home to be filling in the space around me and for becoming lost in it and carried by it. It can be overwhelming going back to the place that holds you closest but I am comforted by the clovers and the wild roses and the evergreens that ground me here.