The Facebook event, I found out, showed the wrong address and the wrong map for the tree planting activity. I searched for over an hour, growing furiously upset to an extent unusual even for me and out of proportion to the circumstance.  All my focused mental strength brought me slowly to self-talk and deep breathing and prayer, and the dissipation of rage, and acceptance of the disappointment and failure.  Driving home from being lost, I saw a sign for Sego Lily Gardens, and pulled in.  Decorative rock covered an enormous round buried drinking water reservoir, and the waste strips and corners had been turned by the city into pleasantly meandering paths within groves of pines, and grassy gardens with blooming flowers, and creeping groundcovers.  A downy woodpecker did not mind me standing only three feet beneath his piney perch as he pecked.  This sudden immersion into quiet living beauty counterbalanced my earlier distress, and I felt almost grateful at having gotten lost.  In these gardens, my dreams reawakened, of a pollinator garden buzzing with bees and graced by lilting butterflies, birds singing overhead, flagstone paths winding among tangled native flowers, a bench here and there.  I love the beauty of Dad’s and Mom’s manicured yards and turf lawn, and I work hard to keep them immaculate.  But I yearn for more natural surroundings, unmanicured and authentic, not forced into shape, but emerging from evolution’s own DNA, with some gentle shaping of garden form from me.  A week later I brought Mom to the garden, and pushed her in her wheelchair around the garden paths, twice.  We soaked in this suburban jewel, unknown to us before, touched by it now, feeling for the moment blessed and graced and whole.