The Flower District

It’s a Jungle Out There

Garden trades and civilians alike descend upon these groaning streets to get their green needs met. When I stalk the Flower District, something about the smell of dirt makes me wish I had a patch of earth to tend.

Living in the city, I peruse the jungle within the concrete jungle, yearning for the dopamine rush unique to planting. Workers in perpetually damp clothes sell flowers and plants at street level. I know I won’t receive the generous reward that plants give in native soil. And yet, the reward is still there—diminished and minute, but present.

Here, we experience the retail version of plant life. It has been packaged and prepared; its beginnings are invisible. The satisfying experience of tending something is tucked away inside street-level real estate, minute and hidden among us within these micro thickets.

My family taught me that gardening is a long game. There is no negotiating with a plant. It may never give you a win, or it may offer an embarrassment of riches.

And yet.

Even here, in the concrete jungle, the Flower District still radiates something gritty, abundant, and joyful.