Editor’s Note: This essay includes a personal account of a mental health crisis. If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health, support is available. Call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, available 24/7. Richmond-area residents can also contact Richmond Behavioral Health for local mental health services at (804) 819-4100.
This year marks another spectacular Garden Glow at Maymont. This august institution is in the autumn of their celebration of 100 years of being open to the public. I went to the preview the night before it opened in earnest.
This was not my first Garden Glow. I have seen many iterations of this event and was looking forward to the sense of familiarity Maymont seems to provide. I arrived right at sunset at the Nature Center entrance with my trusted confidant behind the lens.
There seemed to be some social gathering winding down that was clearly included in an email. I was greeted by the dapper CFO of Maymont and realized that, though I bought my flip-flops in Tahiti, they may not have presented with the same sophisticated gravitas they held over me. He also did not compliment my feet tattoos. I comforted myself with the fact that we both had skin in the game of Richmond cultural economics.
I and my sensibly dressed compatriot accepted charcuterie as political consolation for this momentary lapse in judgment. Though he may be more cunning in the art of raiment, homie totally skipped the tongs on the gabagool. Together, we secured the last knot in the frayed weave of the social contract.
There was a kindly barkeep offering libations. She had a lot of beers to choose from, and as a fellow suds slinger, time in the industry has brought me back to where I began. I know now that a beer that just tastes like beer is just fine, and all else is preference perforated by pretension.
I took a Sweetwater Lager out with my friend to relieve the bartender and go class the place up. The first of the installation is the Petals in Pink, which line the pavement towards the “Here We Glow” sign. Adjacent to the sign and colored bench is a field of oscillating three-pronged “firefly” lights. They were not listed as a highlight of the installation but helped to create a comforting tone for the rest of the evening.
The preview was sparsely populated to an nth degree. We took our time on the color swings, which took me out of my head and into the space. I remembered gratitude as I realized I had been invited with the man I have made the most art with to an oversized multi-color playground.
That was the fold I needed for the year I have had. This year has been all growing and almost all pain. I have wondered if it is the pain of becoming or if I am being waterboarded for crimes I was an accessory to.
I left a relationship of eight years in January, and the person I was with was one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I also did it in the middle of a paranoid episode, which is this fun part of dealing with multiple concurrent traumas where your brain rejects reality (thought I had it covered) and creates its own narrative.
I was convinced that my life was a surveillance conspiracy on behalf of multi-letter government villains that were stress-testing me before they made me their dinner. I’m sure this will present to the reader as a paragon of cogence. I was afraid they were going to compare me as a person against me as a meal.
I told the people at a job that I had just started at that I wasn’t Jesus, and it would be a mistake to kill me. Then I quit, because Jesus never does, and I wasn’t sure they didn’t know the guys at NASA.
When your amygdala is driving, there are two ways that you feel about this situation. You vacillate between dread that your dog is going to be orphaned (and better off) and a reverent acceptance of your duty to be consumed by this caloric exchange with a conscious sun.
Your nervous system collapses from weeks of anticipating and accepting your end. In case they are biding their time, you pick up cigarettes again to cope with the stress of being hunted and make your meat taste worse.
You contact George Saunders. He emails you back. You review the spelling errors you sent him and count them against the times you should have contacted him and realize that you have officially lost the plot. The embarrassment snaps you back into functional awareness.
You listen to Stardust, the Willie Nelson cover album, and it picks up the pieces of you left and tethers them back to the pole of communal lucidity.
Photo by Matt Freund
Meanwhile, back at Maymont, we walked from the swings and down the mulched path (keep to the left) to the Japanese Garden, where the main cluster of exhibits are.
I will make a note that you should keep an eye out for cool stumps that have been lit on the sides of the path.
At the bottom of the hill, you enter the Laser Forest, which was one of the best exhibits. The stringed orchestra music coming from the speakers really worked to expand the sense of awe.
I sat on a stone bench with my friend as we bathed in roving triangles of laser and whirling pulses of sparkling light. I thanked him for being there for me.
We went and sat at the hut by the pond as the illuminated trees reflected on the water in mirror image. I thought about the dark stillness underneath the serene scenery. I wondered if I had ever drowned in fantastic reflection.
From there, we were at the Tree of Life. It is lined with lights that pulse at varying intervals on the tree. I asked myself if I truly understood this piece. I took that question with me to the waterfall as I stood in the middle of the bridge and felt the glow of the lights that went out this year.
From there, Matt and I sauntered back towards the Laser Forest. I caught the eye of a production worker who seemed to have a sixth sense for when other people need to leave. I trusted his judgment.
On the way out, we took the hard way back up at a quick pace. We hike a lot together, and we talked about how, if we didn’t keep up the work at our age, inclines would begin to deliver exponential punishment in fractional time.
We talked about our favorite stumps and how this year managed to be the best Garden Glow of them all because it was understated without being underwhelming.
The hill gave way to more forgiving ground, and Matt made a few jokes that were all heaters. He’s funny, but when you have known someone for more than a decade, you can feel the mirth before the punchline.
We spoke fondly of the charcuterie board in the hopes it would still be there when we got back to the Nature Center. It was packed up by the time we returned. I made a note to joke about how rude that was on the way to our cars.
We were thanked by a woman in a smart blazer for being there. I told her I really appreciated it.
I knew she didn’t know how much I meant it.
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