A zen garden tucked into an urban oasis; in the desolate plains between the traffic-packed grey silhouette of I-70, and the quiet bustle of downtown Denver; a few hundred yards from both an abandoned taxi hub turned neon-conceptual-property-development, and the lonely, rusty midwestern railroad tracks that once transferred bums and poets alike across the country.
The garden belongs to one of my favorite restaurants in the city, and my girlfriend and I were attending a charity event there on a cool summer evening last week, coincidentally annoyed with one another, as couples in love often can be.
The event was benefiting a new urban farming initiative here in Denver, one that harvests fruits and vegetables from the front lawns of well-to-do residents who care enough to plant food-bearing plants on their property for looks, but not enough to use them for their actual purpose in life. The nonprofit group then shares their uncultivated crop with those in need of food rather than decor.
We spent most of our time meandering in the garden though; a peaceful reflective time. And we acquiesced to make up under the subtle glow from its Buddha nature.
