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Address: 71 Old Westbury Rd, Old Westbury, NY 11568 Website: https://www.oldwestburygardens.org/ Old Westbury Gardens is a treasure in the heart of Nassau County. Inspired by English design, the estate was created by George A. Crawley and completed in 1906. The estate spans 200 acres and feature spaces like the Rose Garden, the Lilac Walk Garden, and the beautifully traditional Wall Garden. The gardens are home to a variety of rare plants, which are tended to and cared for on-site through the estate's private greenhouse.Old Westbury Gardens has welcomed the public since 1959, offering visitors the chance to experience the estate in its beautifully preserved state. The Walled Garden, in particular, is one I hadn’t visited in quite some time. I was happy to find the ornate metal gate open on the day I returned to Westbury Gardens.  Overlooking the terrace at the entrance of the Wall Garden. Gorgeous purple and pink flowers set against the green background.
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A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh (1903–1966) is a satirical comedy that illustrates the decay of traditional society. Published in 1934, Waugh's post–World War I experiences of British society most definitely influenced the creation of this novel. It serves as a critique of clinging too tightly to anything—particularly superfluous entities such as wealth, status, marriage, and duty. The novel follows the lives of Tony and Brenda Last, two wealthy individuals who own an estate and belong to a particular echelon of society that remains complacent and uninterested in anything beneath the surface.
This book was not pretty. It was gritty, raw, and at times, deeply unsettling. Though the seemingly glittering facade of wealth might have suggested something more palatable, I found myself feeling that every character's disposition and morals were, in truth, quite cheap. Some of the characters' actions were downright inexcusable—and at times, just absurd. Money can't buy character or common sense, and this novel makes that painfully clear.  The person I am in this moment is the result of repetition. Along the way, my sense of self found comfort in certain patterns of being, even when they weren't the most joyful. The brain longs for safety and predictability, while the soul yearns for something deeper—something the mind can’t always make sense of. It feels almost absurd to realize that the person I’ve become is simply the most convenient version shaped by circumstance. This version of me is the one that knew how to survive best with the hand I was dealt — which begs the question: who am I really?
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"You can only be afraid of what you think you know.”
― J. Krishnamurti
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