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      "body": "***\n\n                                            **Isola Bella, The Floating Garden**\n\n***\n              I went to the island two summers ago with a group of students, some from school, others who were Italians, none of whom I really knew. We took a train to *Stresa*, a town sitting on the edge of *Lago Maggiore*, the lake where the island stood. It was very warm and unfamiliar. I remember sitting on the train and looking out the window, watching places disappear, leaving behind traces that blended into a stream of color and scoring my passage with the hum of distance and the machine. The landscape was dressed in trees, little characters that burst onto the scene ever so often, narrating my view with stories of winery and the crawl of the metropolis. Soon fields emerged, sloping and still, and hills that simmered in the heat. Each image replaced the former in smooth succession, sections of a contiguous plot, parts of the whole. For every train that brought me somewhere, ten brought me back. There were many trains that summer and many that bring me back to *Isola Bella*. \n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmNR6HGUeMcMJWjDQTs7qzaHs4EvDciHg363DWtD5h4DBZ/image.png)\n\n              When we arrived at *Stazione Ferroviaria di Stresa* (the station), we began to walk. Making haste down a hill, we quickly found the lake, our entrance surrounded by an audience of mountains that sat in the clouds, listening to our feet edge closer to the water. The mountains brought me a sense of cool, expressing airs of dignity and esteem, perfect foils to my eager and unassuming heart. I wandered for a short while on the dock, watching as some folks took pictures while I took a sound recording of the lake. As I write this, I’m listening to that very recording. I can still hear the waves brushing at the edge of the rock, drowning out the sound of laughter, exclamations of joy and restlessness, voices of the people I spent the summer with. “Hey you guys, gonna come in for a picture,” someone said. I was too busy documenting the mood to join in, something I had done often that trip: remove myself for “writing purposes.” Songs of the lake ricocheted off the sky, smells of wetness refreshed the air, and afar little islands bobbed their leafy heads to the rhythm of the afternoon. Everything synthesized into a theory of serenity. It was in this moment that I discovered Isola Bella, its terraced gardens masking the glaze of artificiality with a distant charm. The island stood out like a beautiful artifact in a sea of noise.   \n\n              We made our way to Isola Bella by boat. Its image grew exponentially, becoming more real in the form of terraced gardens and shrouds of green. Four hundred years of careful crafting, memories of crag and crust made crumble, dessert for the Borromean crown in their feast of landscape. As is the case for all things I discover, I began to wonder how the island got there, for this was no ordinary place. Here the imagination was a continuum; the palace, the garden, the lake all extended from one another like a thread stitched in an embroidered seal, a stretch of vaulted excellence, an ode to royal excess. And looking back, it does not surprise me that to get to the garden we had to go through the palace. It was of *utmost importance* that we saw the many halls and guestrooms, a grotto casted with shells, ceilings coated with jewels, places where Napoleon, himself, had stood, where the House of Borromeo threw parties in the summer, all of this before we went into the garden. And yet the island would’ve been incomplete without the garden. \t\n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmRdF4UnX16dwfsdyXbUq3N1cwNxnA58VeHEXsA4tNLqqv/image.png)\n\n              Our journey in the island began with a tour of *Palazzo Borromeo* that ended in a room full of tapestries, massive rugs displaying scenes of flora and fauna as we transitioned into the garden. Outside of the palace, there was a courtyard with a statue of Diana footed by a fountain pool. On either side, flights of stairs twisted into a massive tree that offered shade to the virgin goddess. When I first left the palace, there was no trace of a garden, just this alcove covered in glimmering stones, perhaps an entrance, a pause - this was how the garden began.  \n\n              Passing Diana, our first witness, onto the stairs, up along the hedges, into the *Piano della Canfora*, there lied an incredible lawn bookended by an impressive theater of stone. Double parterres separated a walkway of gravel opening up the canvas of the lake which stretched in every visible direction. There I saw the reverse of what I observed before, looking upon Stresa and what I could not have seen from land, I was privileged with an epic revision of the past. Hints of hibiscus and citrus coursed through the air. Walking to the end of the path, the *Teatro Massimo* (the theater) towered of me; there, our next witnesses, mythological figures standing on flowering pillars or sitting in alcoves of hydrangea, viburnum and grass-leaves, watched us enter their stage with marble eyes. \n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmU1RJWGQTdgq7yQUJZan9cnsdauCAATo2LtnYnmfJ7Jxq/image.png)\n\n              Mounted by a winged child, a unicorn stood at the peak of the theater, beneath it statues, three large shells, and the mark of Verbano in the courting of two rivers, the Ticino and Po. Two fountains sprayed into a shrub-crowned pool at the base. Lined with terracotta pots, a second pair of stairs scaled up both sides of the theater, leading to the highest point of the garden: a barren terrace. The view from the terrace was spectacular. You could see the south end of the garden, Giardino d’Amore, where a pond of waterlilies and four immaculately curved bushes stood; the east end where there were hedges of yew, holm oak, bay laurel, box and holly in hues of green; the west end where citrus trees lined the walls and were succeeded by gold and green pomelos, yellow grapefruits, and lemons; a path laden with breadfruit, ferns, coffee, cacao, gum, and an orchid behind a glass, a tropical explosion of color and scent. \n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmbauyvPzofmpaWM2nbELpxFH4UfPoEm9BAjBHc4rCX97i/image.png)\n\n              Even the palace took on new definitions from the garden. All of this was an expertly curated trap, a place designed to impress the most dubious of guests. Sewn into the grass of a separate lawn with flowers of burgundy and white read “humilitas,” latin for humility; peak irony for the careful observer. Nothing inhibited me from experiencing the garden as I liked but I recall feeling as if I did not belong there, considering Count Borromeo, in paying tribute to his wife Isabella, would never have imagined that I, a black American student, would be standing in his garden. \n\n              I found a ledge, took out my journal, and began to think about how I was feeling. That I summer I began an exercise where I would write a poem for every “moment” that I discovered something, be it a place or a feeling, and for as long as the moment would “last.” In my experience as a writer, I have found it difficult to write about things I’ve seen hours or days before because I often forget the details, which to me, are necessary for any depiction of the imagination. In these “moments,” overtaken by something new and unfamiliar, I let the words come, I let the whims of the world guide my hand, direct my eyes into different perspectives, discovering new meaning to the power of presence and hoping to find comfort in a foreign space. These moments offered me room to grow and even steadied an air of mystery among the members of my group who were always so fascinated with what was hidden in my journal. I was, however, very private with my findings. In the garden, I distinctly remember a few of my peers coming up to me with inquiring eyes; I would not relent. \n\n              My mind wandered to what I had seen, of which there were many observations. The memory that stood above the rest was that of two children, a young girl and boy who looked like me, who shared my skin. I saw them playing in the garden as I entered the piazza. Eventually, two men walked up to them and issued some words of instruction, as parents are so inclined. The children were afforded the opportunity of being there and did not seem to question what it meant to be in such a magnificent place. They simply were there because that’s where they were and any open space meant a chance to play. They would never remember me, but I will always remember the joy I felt when I saw their faces, when I realized this was no longer just a place for esteemed guests of the crown, members of the fair seeking shade in the camphor trees. Here, the garden was a gift to me, the world was mine. So, I opened my eyes again to observe what I could, escaping my body for a few minutes and hoping to write. Eventually, I arrived at something in the form of a poem:\n\n*laying down by one of these walls\nlikening the garden and the lake\nto peace I’ve made\noften looking ’round\nand on my own\nhave found a beauteous World\nthat I should arrive\nat this moment unprepared\nsearching where the \nwords don’t flower\n\tfor no man knows \n\tthe Beauty that is next\n\tthat steals his breath \n\this heart arrest\n\twith novelty\nwhere soon\n\tthis lake becomes a sea\n\tthis palace, a garden\n\ta place for me*\n\n              I put my pen and journal away and decided to just take everything in. The garden brought me to a completion, reminding me of a world without boundaries. Everywhere was neither mine nor not mine, but an opportunity for me to discover how I conceived myself in relation to the objects around me, how we begin to create the boundaries of *the garden* in the stories we share. In my calmest hour, I was brought into an active state of careful consideration and realization facilitated by this magical place. I thought about how I was graduating into a traveler, wherein I began to risk everything by adopting a way of thinking that perhaps challenged what I had come to know as \"true.” I am thankful for Isola Bella for bringing me new clarity. Often in nature we are able to develop an awareness of our contextual surroundings, uncovering the words between the lines, the flowers beneath the view, the mysterious ways things seem to intertwine in life. This journey back to Isola Bella has had many rewards. \n\n              It is interesting to me that the *journey of return* always seems much quicker than the *journey to* and I've realize that it's because we know not to expect anything as we once did: we take it as it is.  \n\n\n                                                              **The end.**\n                                                               @dajon",
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      "body": "***\n\n                                            **Isola Bella, The Floating Garden**\n\n***\n              I went to the island two summers ago with a group of students, some from school, others who were Italians, none of whom I really knew. We took a train to *Stresa*, a town sitting on the edge of *Lago Maggiore*, the lake where the island stood. It was very warm and unfamiliar. I remember sitting on the train and looking out the window, watching places disappear, leaving behind traces that blended into a stream of color and scoring my passage with the hum of distance and the machine. The landscape was dressed in trees, little characters that burst onto the scene ever so often, narrating my view with stories of winery and the crawl of the metropolis. Soon fields emerged, sloping and still, and hills that simmered in the heat. Each image replaced the former in smooth succession, sections of a contiguous plot, parts of the whole. For every train that brought me somewhere, ten brought me back. There were many trains that summer and many that bring me back to *Isola Bella*. \n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmNR6HGUeMcMJWjDQTs7qzaHs4EvDciHg363DWtD5h4DBZ/image.png)\n\n              When we arrived at *Stazione Ferroviaria di Stresa* (the station), we began to walk. Making haste down a hill, we quickly found the lake, our entrance surrounded by an audience of mountains that sat in the clouds, listening to our feet edge closer to the water. The mountains brought me a sense of cool, expressing airs of dignity and esteem, perfect foils to my eager and unassuming heart. I wandered for a short while on the dock, watching as some folks took pictures while I took a sound recording of the lake. As I write this, I’m listening to that very recording. I can still hear the waves brushing at the edge of the rock, drowning out the sound of laughter, exclamations of joy and restlessness, voices of the people I spent the summer with. “Hey you guys, gonna come in for a picture,” someone said. I was too busy documenting the mood to join in, something I had done often that trip: remove myself for “writing purposes.” Songs of the lake ricocheted off the sky, smells of wetness refreshed the air, and afar little islands bobbed their leafy heads to the rhythm of the afternoon. Everything synthesized into a theory of serenity. It was in this moment that I discovered Isola Bella, its terraced gardens masking the glaze of artificiality with a distant charm. The island stood out like a beautiful artifact in a sea of noise.   \n\n              We made our way to Isola Bella by boat. Its image grew exponentially, becoming more real in the form of terraced gardens and shrouds of green. Four hundred years of careful crafting, memories of crag and crust made crumble, dessert for the Borromean crown in their feast of landscape. As is the case for all things I discover, I began to wonder how the island got there, for this was no ordinary place. Here the imagination was a continuum; the palace, the garden, the lake all extended from one another like a thread stitched in an embroidered seal, a stretch of vaulted excellence, an ode to royal excess. And looking back, it does not surprise me that to get to the garden we had to go through the palace. It was of *utmost importance* that we saw the many halls and guestrooms, a grotto casted with shells, ceilings coated with jewels, places where Napoleon, himself, had stood, where the House of Borromeo threw parties in the summer, all of this before we went into the garden. And yet the island would’ve been incomplete without the garden. \t\n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmRdF4UnX16dwfsdyXbUq3N1cwNxnA58VeHEXsA4tNLqqv/image.png)\n\n              Our journey in the island began with a tour of *Palazzo Borromeo* that ended in a room full of tapestries, massive rugs displaying scenes of flora and fauna as we transitioned into the garden. Outside of the palace, there was a courtyard with a statue of Diana footed by a fountain pool. On either side, flights of stairs twisted into a massive tree that offered shade to the virgin goddess. When I first left the palace, there was no trace of a garden, just this alcove covered in glimmering stones, perhaps an entrance, a pause - this was how the garden began.  \n\n              Passing Diana, our first witness, onto the stairs, up along the hedges, into the *Piano della Canfora*, there lied an incredible lawn bookended by an impressive theater of stone. Double parterres separated a walkway of gravel opening up the canvas of the lake which stretched in every visible direction. There I saw the reverse of what I observed before, looking upon Stresa and what I could not have seen from land, I was privileged with an epic revision of the past. Hints of hibiscus and citrus coursed through the air. Walking to the end of the path, the *Teatro Massimo* (the theater) towered of me; there, our next witnesses, mythological figures standing on flowering pillars or sitting in alcoves of hydrangea, viburnum and grass-leaves, watched us enter their stage with marble eyes. \n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmU1RJWGQTdgq7yQUJZan9cnsdauCAATo2LtnYnmfJ7Jxq/image.png)\n\n              Mounted by a winged child, a unicorn stood at the peak of the theater, beneath it statues, three large shells, and the mark of Verbano in the courting of two rivers, the Ticino and Po. Two fountains sprayed into a shrub-crowned pool at the base. Lined with terracotta pots, a second pair of stairs scaled up both sides of the theater, leading to the highest point of the garden: a barren terrace. The view from the terrace was spectacular. You could see the south end of the garden, Giardino d’Amore, where a pond of waterlilies and four immaculately curved bushes stood; the east end where there were hedges of yew, holm oak, bay laurel, box and holly in hues of green; the west end where citrus trees lined the walls and were succeeded by gold and green pomelos, yellow grapefruits, and lemons; a path laden with breadfruit, ferns, coffee, cacao, gum, and an orchid behind a glass, a tropical explosion of color and scent. \n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmbauyvPzofmpaWM2nbELpxFH4UfPoEm9BAjBHc4rCX97i/image.png)\n\n              Even the palace took on new definitions from the garden. All of this was an expertly curated trap, a place designed to impress the most dubious of guests. Sewn into the grass of a separate lawn with flowers of burgundy and white read “humilitas,” latin for humility; peak irony for the careful observer. Nothing inhibited me from experiencing the garden as I liked but I recall feeling as if I did not belong there, considering Count Borromeo, in paying tribute to his wife Isabella, would never have imagined that I, a black American student, would be standing in his garden. \n\n              I found a ledge, took out my journal, and began to think about how I was feeling. That I summer I began an exercise where I would write a poem for every “moment” that I discovered something, be it a place or a feeling, and for as long as the moment would “last.” In my experience as a writer, I have found it difficult to write about things I’ve seen hours or days before because I often forget the details, which to me, are necessary for any depiction of the imagination. In these “moments,” overtaken by something new and unfamiliar, I let the words come, I let the whims of the world guide my hand, direct my eyes into different perspectives, discovering new meaning to the power of presence and hoping to find comfort in a foreign space. These moments offered me room to grow and even steadied an air of mystery among the members of my group who were always so fascinated with what was hidden in my journal. I was, however, very private with my findings. In the garden, I distinctly remember a few of my peers coming up to me with inquiring eyes; I would not relent. \n\n              My mind wandered to what I had seen, of which there were many observations. The memory that stood above the rest was that of two children, a young girl and boy who looked like me, who shared my skin. I saw them playing in the garden as I entered the piazza. Eventually, two men walked up to them and issued some words of instruction, as parents are so inclined. The children were afforded the opportunity of being there and did not seem to question what it meant to be in such a magnificent place. They simply were there because that’s where they were and any open space meant a chance to play. They would never remember me, but I will always remember the joy I felt when I saw their faces, when I realized this was no longer just a place for esteemed guests of the crown, members of the fair seeking shade in the camphor trees. Here, the garden was a gift to me, the world was mine. So, I opened my eyes again to observe what I could, escaping my body for a few minutes and hoping to write. Eventually, I arrived at something in the form of a poem:\n\n*laying down by one of these walls\nlikening the garden and the lake\nto peace I’ve made\noften looking ’round\nand on my own\nhave found a beauteous World\nthat I should arrive\nat this moment unprepared\nsearching where the \nwords don’t flower\n\tfor no man knows \n\tthe Beauty that is next\n\tthat steals his breath \n\this heart arrest\n\twith novelty\nwhere soon\n\tthis lake becomes a sea\n\tthis palace, a garden\n\ta place for me*\n\n              I put my pen and journal away and decided to just take everything in. The garden brought me to a completion, reminding me of a world without boundaries. Everywhere was neither mine nor not mine, but an opportunity for me to discover how I conceived myself in relation to the objects around me, how we begin to create the boundaries of *the garden* in the stories we share. In my calmest hour, I was brought into an active state of careful consideration and realization facilitated by this magical place. I thought about how I was graduating into a traveler, wherein I began to risk everything by adopting a way of thinking that perhaps challenged what I had come to know as \"true.” I am thankful for Isola Bella for bringing me new clarity. Often in nature we are able to develop an awareness of our contextual surroundings, uncovering the words between the lines, the flowers beneath the view, the mysterious ways things seem to intertwine in life. This journey back to Isola Bella has had many rewards. \n\n              It is interesting to me that the *journey of return* always seems much quicker than the *journey to* and I've realize that it's because we know not to expect anything as we once did: we take it as it is.  \n\n\n                                                              **The end.**\n                                                               @dajon",
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      "body": "@@ -262,34 +262,16 @@\n p; \n-   \n **Isola \n@@ -11965,213 +11965,21 @@\n bsp;\n-                **The end.**%0A                \n+**The end.**%0A\n &nbs\n",
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      "body": "***\n\n                                                           **Isola Bella, The Floating Garden**\n\n***\n              I went to the island two summers ago with a group of students, some from school, others who were Italians, none of whom I really knew. We took a train to *Stresa*, a town sitting on the edge of *Lago Maggiore*, the lake where the island stood. It was very warm and unfamiliar. I remember sitting on the train and looking out the window, watching places disappear, leaving behind traces that blended into a stream of color and scoring my passage with the hum of distance and the machine. The landscape was dressed in trees, little characters that burst onto the scene ever so often, narrating my view with stories of winery and the crawl of the metropolis. Soon fields emerged, sloping and still, and hills that simmered in the heat. Each image replaced the former in smooth succession, sections of a contiguous plot, parts of the whole. For every train that brought me somewhere, ten brought me back. There were many trains that summer and many that bring me back to *Isola Bella*. \n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmNR6HGUeMcMJWjDQTs7qzaHs4EvDciHg363DWtD5h4DBZ/image.png)\n\n              When we arrived at *Stazione Ferroviaria di Stresa* (the station), we began to walk. Making haste down a hill, we quickly found the lake, our entrance surrounded by an audience of mountains that sat in the clouds, listening to our feet edge closer to the water. The mountains brought me a sense of cool, expressing airs of dignity and esteem, perfect foils to my eager and unassuming heart. I wandered for a short while on the dock, watching as some folks took pictures while I took a sound recording of the lake. As I write this, I’m listening to that very recording. I can still hear the waves brushing at the edge of the rock, drowning out the sound of laughter, exclamations of joy and restlessness, voices of the people I spent the summer with. “Hey you guys, gonna come in for a picture,” someone said. I was too busy documenting the mood to join in, something I had done often that trip: remove myself for “writing purposes.” Songs of the lake ricocheted off the sky, smells of wetness refreshed the air, and afar little islands bobbed their leafy heads to the rhythm of the afternoon. Everything synthesized into a theory of serenity. It was in this moment that I discovered Isola Bella, its terraced gardens masking the glaze of artificiality with a distant charm. The island stood out like a beautiful artifact in a sea of noise.   \n\n              We made our way to Isola Bella by boat. Its image grew exponentially, becoming more real in the form of terraced gardens and shrouds of green. Four hundred years of careful crafting, memories of crag and crust made crumble, dessert for the Borromean crown in their feast of landscape. As is the case for all things I discover, I began to wonder how the island got there, for this was no ordinary place. Here the imagination was a continuum; the palace, the garden, the lake all extended from one another like a thread stitched in an embroidered seal, a stretch of vaulted excellence, an ode to royal excess. And looking back, it does not surprise me that to get to the garden we had to go through the palace. It was of *utmost importance* that we saw the many halls and guestrooms, a grotto casted with shells, ceilings coated with jewels, places where Napoleon, himself, had stood, where the House of Borromeo threw parties in the summer, all of this before we went into the garden. And yet the island would’ve been incomplete without the garden. \t\n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmRdF4UnX16dwfsdyXbUq3N1cwNxnA58VeHEXsA4tNLqqv/image.png)\n\n              Our journey in the island began with a tour of *Palazzo Borromeo* that ended in a room full of tapestries, massive rugs displaying scenes of flora and fauna as we transitioned into the garden. Outside of the palace, there was a courtyard with a statue of Diana footed by a fountain pool. On either side, flights of stairs twisted into a massive tree that offered shade to the virgin goddess. When I first left the palace, there was no trace of a garden, just this alcove covered in glimmering stones, perhaps an entrance, a pause - this was how the garden began.  \n\n              Passing Diana, our first witness, onto the stairs, up along the hedges, into the *Piano della Canfora*, there lied an incredible lawn bookended by an impressive theater of stone. Double parterres separated a walkway of gravel opening up the canvas of the lake which stretched in every visible direction. There I saw the reverse of what I observed before, looking upon Stresa and what I could not have seen from land, I was privileged with an epic revision of the past. Hints of hibiscus and citrus coursed through the air. Walking to the end of the path, the *Teatro Massimo* (the theater) towered of me; there, our next witnesses, mythological figures standing on flowering pillars or sitting in alcoves of hydrangea, viburnum and grass-leaves, watched us enter their stage with marble eyes. \n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmU1RJWGQTdgq7yQUJZan9cnsdauCAATo2LtnYnmfJ7Jxq/image.png)\n\n              Mounted by a winged child, a unicorn stood at the peak of the theater, beneath it statues, three large shells, and the mark of Verbano in the courting of two rivers, the Ticino and Po. Two fountains sprayed into a shrub-crowned pool at the base. Lined with terracotta pots, a second pair of stairs scaled up both sides of the theater, leading to the highest point of the garden: a barren terrace. The view from the terrace was spectacular. You could see the south end of the garden, Giardino d’Amore, where a pond of waterlilies and four immaculately curved bushes stood; the east end where there were hedges of yew, holm oak, bay laurel, box and holly in hues of green; the west end where citrus trees lined the walls and were succeeded by gold and green pomelos, yellow grapefruits, and lemons; a path laden with breadfruit, ferns, coffee, cacao, gum, and an orchid behind a glass, a tropical explosion of color and scent. \n\n![](https://steemitimages.com/DQmbauyvPzofmpaWM2nbELpxFH4UfPoEm9BAjBHc4rCX97i/image.png)\n\n              Even the palace took on new definitions from the garden. All of this was an expertly curated trap, a place designed to impress the most dubious of guests. Sewn into the grass of a separate lawn with flowers of burgundy and white read “humilitas,” latin for humility; peak irony for the careful observer. Nothing inhibited me from experiencing the garden as I liked but I recall feeling as if I did not belong there, considering Count Borromeo, in paying tribute to his wife Isabella, would never have imagined that I, a black American student, would be standing in his garden. \n\n              I found a ledge, took out my journal, and began to think about how I was feeling. That I summer I began an exercise where I would write a poem for every “moment” that I discovered something, be it a place or a feeling, and for as long as the moment would “last.” In my experience as a writer, I have found it difficult to write about things I’ve seen hours or days before because I often forget the details, which to me, are necessary for any depiction of the imagination. In these “moments,” overtaken by something new and unfamiliar, I let the words come, I let the whims of the world guide my hand, direct my eyes into different perspectives, discovering new meaning to the power of presence and hoping to find comfort in a foreign space. These moments offered me room to grow and even steadied an air of mystery among the members of my group who were always so fascinated with what was hidden in my journal. I was, however, very private with my findings. In the garden, I distinctly remember a few of my peers coming up to me with inquiring eyes; I would not relent. \n\n              My mind wandered to what I had seen, of which there were many observations. The memory that stood above the rest was that of two children, a young girl and boy who looked like me, who shared my skin. I saw them playing in the garden as I entered the piazza. Eventually, two men walked up to them and issued some words of instruction, as parents are so inclined. The children were afforded the opportunity of being there and did not seem to question what it meant to be in such a magnificent place. They simply were there because that’s where they were and any open space meant a chance to play. They would never remember me, but I will always remember the joy I felt when I saw their faces, when I realized this was no longer just a place for esteemed guests of the crown, members of the fair seeking shade in the camphor trees. Here, the garden was a gift to me, the world was mine. So, I opened my eyes again to observe what I could, escaping my body for a few minutes and hoping to write. Eventually, I arrived at something in the form of a poem:\n\n*laying down by one of these walls\nlikening the garden and the lake\nto peace I’ve made\noften looking ’round\nand on my own\nhave found a beauteous World\nthat I should arrive\nat this moment unprepared\nsearching where the \nwords don’t flower\n\tfor no man knows \n\tthe Beauty that is next\n\tthat steals his breath \n\this heart arrest\n\twith novelty\nwhere soon\n\tthis lake becomes a sea\n\tthis palace, a garden\n\ta place for me*\n\n              I put my pen and journal away and decided to just take everything in. The garden brought me to a completion, reminding me of a world without boundaries. Everywhere was neither mine nor not mine, but an opportunity for me to discover how I conceived myself in relation to the objects around me, how we begin to create the boundaries of *the garden* in the stories we share. In my calmest hour, I was brought into an active state of careful consideration and realization facilitated by this magical place. I thought about how I was graduating into a traveler, wherein I began to risk everything by adopting a way of thinking that perhaps challenged what I had come to know as \"true.” I am thankful for Isola Bella for bringing me new clarity. Often in nature we are able to develop an awareness of our contextual surroundings, uncovering the words between the lines, the flowers beneath the view, the mysterious ways things seem to intertwine in life. This journey back to Isola Bella has had many rewards. \n\n              It is interesting to me that the *journey of return* always seems much quicker than the *journey to* and I've realize that it's because we know not to expect anything as we once did: we take it as it is.  \n\n\n                                                                              **The end.**\n                                                                               @dajon",
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