A Quiet Garden If we carry two passports, one for health, the other for illness, I used my second…

A Quiet GardenIf we carry two passports, one for health, the other for illness, I used my second passport recently to check into a post-surgery rehab clinic, a putty-colored one-story structure with a kitchen that served things that resembled food. Sensory deprivation, I discovered, was the theme of rehabilitation. And so it was with a furrowed brow that I wandered outside into a courtyard surrounded by a tall steel fence. Scraggly trees sprinkled dead leaves over the footpath. A few fellow inmates slumped in wheelchairs and scanned their mobile phones. Dogs growled in the distance. Then I noticed a corner of this forlorn landscape that was full of flowers. It was a tiny paradise, an oasis of brightly colored plants in gleaming pots. I felt as though I’d wandered into “dietary” (as the kitchen was called) to find a golden platter of fried chicken with all the fixings. Flowers bloomed, bees hummed, butterflies flickered. In a world bristling with confusion and despair, someone…