| Late last Winter, my thoughts were sad after a death in my
family, and I went, with my friend Laura, to seek solace in the beauty of The
Cloisters. As we trudged up the hill at Fort Tryon Park, we wrapped our coats
tightly and regretted not having worn scarves to protect our hair from the cold
wind. Perhaps it was a blessing, because the walk was so lovely that if we had
not been driven to seek warmth, we might never have reached the building. As the
skies outside had been gray, so too the museum was stark yet grand.
After some time spent in the galleries, we stepped into the promenade around the
cloister garden. Although there were tiny hard brown buds at the ends of the
tree branches, Winter still held sway over the little plot. Then, we stepped
around a corner, and there was a sight so lovely that nothing in the museum
could possibly have compared with it. Springing from a plain earthenware pot,
was a clutch of blooming Daffodils, their radiance proclaiming eternal dominion
for faith.
I gasped at their magnificent defiance of the clouds outside the window. Oh, how
I admired, and longed to be as courageous as those flowers, for I was sore
feared of death. After a few minutes spent in admiration, Laura pulled me into
the next gallery to continue our tour. We saw gold, and silver, and unicorns:
all the wonders man can create.
Later, we decided that it was time to go to tea, but first went to bid adieu to
the blossoms. I walked to the pot, and stood there wishing that somehow I could
gather their warmth into my now peaceful, but still heavy heart. Then, I looked
out the window at a miracle. There, on the trees, buds which had been brown,
were changed to golden adornments.
I had come to the museum in mourning. Willful, I had seen the Daffodils, but
clung to my sadness. Then G-d spoke the language of the trees, and I bowed in
grateful recognition of life's eternal cycle. No matter how bleak the sky,
golden miracles are waiting, and will come to all, who open their eyes to see.
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