Yesterday, the 11-year old and I made the overdue trip over to Atlanta.
(A bit over 2 hours from Birmingham, straight I-20 all the way)
The purpose: to trade with my oldest son. I had something of his that he had included in a gift shipped here to save postage, and he had all my Rome guidebooks.
So after I dropped the high schooler off, we headed over.
We met, did the exchange, spent some time talking, and then…what?
We had a couple of hours. We’re done with the Aquarium – we’ve been several times, it’s expensive and seems to shrink every time we go. We’ve visited the Zoo fairly recently. Fernbank is in the wrong direction and there’s not a lot to it. The temporary exhibits currently at the High Museum of Art don’t interest us. I’d like to go to the Atlanta History Center at some point, but not without the high schooler.
So…how about the Botanical Gardens?
We’d never been, mostly because admission is charged, and we are spoiled by our lovely, no-admission Birmingham Botanical Gardens (and our sweet no-admission Birmingham Museum of Art). But they tempted me with a special exhibit of Dale Chihuly glass sculptures – it seemed like a decent way to spend a couple of hours, so why not?
The sculptures are fine, although really not that intriguing, except from the “how did they pack them up and get them here without breaking everything” perspective.
No, what struck me on this visit was this:
These glass tubes, no matter how delicate and ingeniously wrought, were amateur hour when compared to this:
The leaves of these plants in the conservatory looked as if they had been painted by hand.
The juxtaposition of tiny round succulunt leaves with their protective spikes was arresting.
Masterpiece after masterpiece.
Over and over, beauty, down to the levels we cannot see, to the levels that sustain us every day, the stuff of ourselves that we cannot see and can never make with our own limited minds and clumsy hands.
Beautiful.