Who would have thought that a New York City girl like me would become a gardener on our 31 st
floor balcony? Although I’ve never possessed a green thumb, I fell in love flowers and decided
to cultivate my own mini-garden. Despite three surgeries, I persevered in planting a variety of
flowers and perennials. I learned how to pot and care for whatever plants and flowers caught
my fancy. Why now in my late 60s am I willing to get dirty— (despite gloves and a manicure—)
and happily lift, lug and scoop potting soil followed by daily watering?

Simple. As an autism mom, I wanted to create a summer escape from the horrors of the outside
world, and the stress of my inside world. A large corner balcony with a heavy sliding door was
the perfect answer. In addition to a white wrought iron table, chairs and a lounger, I covered
the entire perimeter of my balcony with a riot of yellow, pink, and blue flowers along with
several green plants. If I want to be left alone, I just slide the door shut. Opening the heavy door
is too much of a struggle for my daughter. She sometimes lies in wait untill I come back inside,
but at least I get a well-deserved break.

My hip replacement four months ago only delayed my plant campaign beyond my Mother’s Day
goal. As of June 2nd , I completed filling all of my 15 pots with an assortment of hydrangeas,
yellow daisies, impatiens, begonias and who knows what else. Not bothering with the names, I
just bought whatever looked pretty AND healthy (the better to survive my less than perfect
horticulture skills). At the plant store, the salesmen told me to water the plants every day,
especially the hydrangeas which require the most hydration.

After sweeping up all the potting dirt, I always fall in love with my plant babies. Every morning
when I raise my blackout shades, I am treated to the beauties of nature in addition to skyline
views.

“Thirsty?” I caress each plant before I water it.

As they bloom, I compliment them. “Wow, you look especially beautiful today. Do you want
more sun or are you happy where you are?”

Of course, I don’t expect an answer. I fill them in for myself as I pour the water into their dryish
soil. “Uh oh, why are you wilting? Did I drown you or not give you enough? Maybe it’s time to
prune?”

I’m proud of my amateur gardening, especially when I receive compliments from my neighbors
who are successful decorators. “You have a great eye for color. Your flowers are beautiful.”
These are my babies in my half empty nest. I don’t want them to die, though inevitably a few
plants shrivel up, or turn yellow (too much water) or brown (too little). Mostly I’m in awe of
their beauty and resilience. Finally, at 68, I’m enjoying a tiny patch of nature which I’m helping
to grow. (I hope).

Drinking my morning coffee with my flowers and plants to keep me company(especially when there’s no wind!) is truly peaceful. Being up on the 31 st floor I enjoy the
relative quiet. I can’t hear my daughter screaming for me to help her with a non-urgent email,
or my husband asking where his favorite sweatshirt is hiding. The sun reflecting off my babies’
leaves and petals is especially restorative. I count the new blossoms even as the older ones
shrivel and drop.

For the first time in my life I’m communing with nature on a glass and concrete balcony close to
the sky. Nature and I, together in the most unlikely of times and places.

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