Day One

Wind out of the north, clear blue skies and sunshine sent me and my dog, Willie, on a much needed visit to Mize Azalea Garden. Due to summer travel and early autumn's endless rains, it had been months since we'd followed the garden's meandering trails.

We parked behind Johnson Coliseum, walked past Burrows Creek and a newly planted azalea bed and stopped at the kiosk for a visitor's guide. It's not that we feared getting lost in the 8-acre garden. It's that the guide appeared to be a new, updated publication. Nice. Very nice.

Willie and I headed to the left, past beds of azaleas that are silent, now, but will scream with color in spring. We paid homage to a magnolia that I've fancied for years. That tree knows how to entertain.

We wandered around with no particular destination in mind, no place to be. There was no sense of urgency, no sense of time, at all. The garden shifts perspective.

Fingers of light point through loblolly pines. Lush greenery complements Japanese maples dressed in their subtle shades of autumn. The earth's rich fragrance holds a sweet top note that connects this October with every October that has past.

Watching birds on the wing, picking apples and baking pies, carving pumpkins and toasting seeds, searching night skies for the change of constellations, casting shadows in the harvest moon's light — memories vague yet pleasant.

"Continuity," I said to Willie. "Tomorrow, I'll bring my camera."

Day Two

Last spring, a stand of trees planted at the west end of the garden, along the path that leads to LaNana Creek, looked rather straggly, branches reaching in every direction. I thought the trees might be a work in progress, part of a bigger plan. Sure enough.

Willie and I were headed to the creek to check the water level — just curious — when we noticed that steel reinforcing rods set in concrete had been hidden amongst the trees. We'd not seen those before.

The rods rise up, arcing over the path. The trees follow their lead. The bigger plan has been revealed.

Nearby, there was a young man working in the garden. I approached and asked about the trees. I was not equipped with paper and pen, therefore any mistakes in recreating our conversation are mine, not his.

While befriending Willie, the gardener said the trees were called "weeping bald cypress." Grafting had been performed. It was as if two trees had been turned into one. More information about the bald cypress could be found on the Internet under the scientific name "Taxodium," he said. And yes, a green bower would one day cover the path leading to the creek.

I asked what color the bower would be in fall, when the leaves change. A yellow-orange, but the leaves won't last long, he said. It's the trees' bare branches in winter that will be interesting.

Winter is, by far, my favorite season in the garden. I told the young man I could hardly wait.

Day Three

Willie and I walked through the azalea garden, searching for nuance, subtle changes that occur when we're not looking. The little dog worked one level. I worked another.

The time of year, the time of day, a play of light and shadow, colors, shapes, textures, similarities and contrasts — the garden waits for no one. We try to keep up with it. Stay in step. Consider details. Take account.

Rebecca Solnit wrote "Walking shares with making and working that crucial element of engagement of the body and the mind with the world, of knowing the world through the body and the body through the world."

Willie and I could have headed back to the car, but we took another loop around the garden, instead.