Journals from LONDUB

I have decided that I'm going to post some things I wrote while on my trip from May. I always knew I'd be sad to come back but I actually seriously miss Dublin in particular.

First, Creative writing from Kew Gardens. I loved Kew Gardens so much. This is some stream of consciousness writing, which I'm not very well practiced in. But I think it came out well, and so did my professor.

The Water Lily House at Kew Gardens

The purple lily stood tall above the water, soaking in the humidity that the green house gave. Looking up at the glass ceiling, its petals curved out and up, wishing for a drop of rain. Its stem desappears into the glass water surface and grasps onto the base of the pond. The little boy's elbow broke the glass surface as he strained to reach the red center of a spiky arches, nearly closing in on itself. His arm dripped as he brought the arm back to swipe at another flower, this one purple with yellow innards. As his fingers closed around the petals, his mother saw him, scolded him, asking him what his father would say. He released his grip and the flower stretched its petals, trying to regain its former glory. The petals reached back up toward the glass ceiling of its home, which reflected the people circling the pond. The glass mother grasped her upturned son's hand and leads him to the next awaiting blossom. The building itself holds its breath as the son trails his hand along a line of lilies in the planter, but his fingers lay unstressed on the top fringe of leaves. The iron grip of the frame of the building kept its hold on the glass as it tried to hold the glass tight in its fear. The protective glasshouse knows it has no control, but the iron frame knew its fear and held steady. Another voice floated up to the glass roof, but this was more comforting, "I could cry over the beauty of this place." With a tremulous finger outstretched, it stroked the petals of the flower so softly that it barely moved. The speaker was actually talking to themselves, ulike the mother who was scolding her son as she did every hour or so. Sometimes she wondered about him and whether he were worth the effort she always put forth. The boy was only 7 but was already nearly too much to handle. And his actions sometimes worried her, like the nearly crushed flower of a few m inutes before. She is constantly worried about his lack of friends but hopes it will get better as he gets older. At least her excursions to the lily house were enough to satiate her desire for comfort of some kind. The massive lily pads really calmed her because they let her imagine that they were a tiny boat just for her to play in, rest in. With tiny barriers between the world and her, it made her realize that even as she felt alone, she wasn't really separated, as she would be in the lily. But her appreciation of they lily pond outdoes her apprehension for her son's future, at least for a little while.

She gripped her son's hand, and with the sense of reassurance that is only created by a reminder of peace, she bent to show him yet another flower- this time, a lotus.