On this happy occasion of our graduation from the Landscape Institute, I could talk about how I fortuitously discovered the field of landscape design and its sister field, landscape history. Or, I could talk about the immense pleasure I have experienced struggling to master the contents of every class I have ever taken here. Or, I could dispense unwanted projections or advice on the future of the landscape profession. But I would rather relate my odyssey of discovery into the field of landscape design and what it has meant to me personally. This time around--since I am now over sixty and had previously earned a Masters degree in Reformation history--school has been an awakening--an arousal of my most creative and best talents; a discovery of creative talents that I either never knew existed or did not believe I possessed. My achievements and the approval of practitioners in this field--professionals, teachers, clients, and students--have allowed a new found confidence to take root in me.
With every paper I write, with every garden I design, with every plot and pot of earth I run through my fingers, I have looked for Beauty and Truth--the Janus figure that satisfies both the heart and mind. Why a garden--such a fragile and ephemeral piece of nature--should have this effect, I surely do not know. Perhaps it has something to do with trees. Andrew Jackson Downing once said that "trees are like the returns of gratitude, [they] raise a most delightful train of sensations in the mind; so innocent and rational, that they justly rank with the most exquisite of human enjoyments." And though we may never fully understand why, our sentient being is made better by this brush with nature.
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