California’s Kaleidoscopic Majesty: An Afternoon at the University of Berkeley Botanical Garden
“Flowers are the music of the ground from earth’s lips spoken without sound.” —Edwin Curran
It is delightful to be in California when flowers are in bloom. Last Saturday was one of those divine, one-of-a-kind spring days — soft, fluffy clouds in a clean coastal blue sky, the sun golden and glorious. After eating a healthy vegan meal on College Street in Oakland, we made our way to the University of Berkeley Botanical Garden. The doors were open and we entered, inspired by birdsong and the gentle murmur of a not-so-distant bay.
After crossing the greenhouse of desert plants, we came upon a throng of people, all gathered before the showstopper. The tiered ridge was ablaze with a kaleidoscopic display of South African blooms from the Cape Peninsula.
We stood there—
Arrested in time and space.
Awestruck in the majesty of Nature.
The rocky slope had erupted into a magical mosaic, a cultivated super bloom so vivid, so euphorically alive, it seemed to steal our breath away.
Bright, spontaneous buttercups, granola goldenrods, daffodils crowned with sweetness, flaxen daisies, and candlelit tulips. The warm, optimistic hues flowed from lime to lemony gold. Our eyes moved over lilacs, royal blue irises, forget-me-nots, deep turquoise ocean blues, and cabernet purples. These blooms were punctuated by snow-white daisies, cloud-white snowdrops—each one shimmering from within. The flowers were happily singing in harmony.
The tangerine of the daisies and ice plants, and the irrepressible California poppies, hobnobbed with a sudden flush of regal pink, causing us to collectively inhale in ecstasy.
This wasn’t merely a garden—it was a breathtaking painting, a celebration of life rooted deep in the ebullient land of Southern Africa, one of Earth’s most exuberant cradles of biodiversity.
White butterflies floated like drifting petals.
Hummingbirds flitted their jeweled arcs.
Bumblebees murmured to nectared blooms.
Sunbeams ricocheted, painting rainbows.
Children laughed, threading their way through floral mazes of proteas, ericas, and restios. People took pictures. Along the paths, artists sat in awe, brush and paper in hand, eyes squinting to capture the impossible hues that no pigment could quite hold. Poets leaned into notebooks, transferring thoughts as quickly as inspiration bloomed, trying to keep pace with the wild, wordless beauty around them. It felt as if the spirit of Nature herself was thrumming in song and dance.
The ephemeral blooms pulsed in waves. The whole slope glowed with miraculous majesty, as if the gardeners of the Strawberry Hill had painted it with a child’s delight and a maestro’s hand. These distant cousins of flora had found harmony, a new home in California, thanks to the wet winters and hot summers, without forgetting their original song.
We traced the color bands with reverent eyes, marveling at the brave geometry and joyous forms of blooms from the Iris, Daisy, and Amaryllis families. There was ecstatic defiance in their fullness, a beauty that almost dared you to look too long. The air shimmered with fragrance, with warmth, with the sheer abundance of it all.
And then — perhaps it was the dizzying sunlight, or the spell of too much wonder — we turned away, hearts full and eyes overwhelmed. It was, in that moment, too much beauty to hold in one breath.
So we turned.
And descended into the hush of the Asian gardens. Here, coolness gathered in shade and stillness. The air shifted. The path meandered gently around a tranquil pond where koi fish gilded beneath floating lotus leaves, and turtles basked on warm stones, unmoved by our voices. People stood in the misty sprays of a waterfall, and Japanese pagodas, which transformed everything into a garden grotto. The light was gentle, diffused, the atmosphere reverent. We exhaled.
Then, just as the quiet settled around us, we looked up — and there they were. At first glance, I thought they were the red silk cotton trees from India, but when we came close, we realized they were Chinese red rhododendrons, in full, dramatic bloom.
Rising like flames against the green, their soft, bunched, showy blooms pulsed with a dignified presence. There was something ancient in their stillness. And something haunting, too. A memory stirred.
“The rhododendrons stood fifty feet high, massed like a wall, forcing a way along the drive with great crimson faces…” Rebecca. Daphne du Maurier’s gothic novel surfaced, unbidden. In that tale, rhododendrons were not merely flowers but symbols of obsession, of legacy, of a beauty both seductive and suffocating. And yet here, in the soft embrace of a California garden, they felt different.
Not ominous, but awe-inspiring.
Less a warning, more a quiet reminder that dreams — and first impressions of a written word — can bloom in unexpected places. Their petals seemed to gather stories across continents — from the southern mountains of China, to the imaginary estate of Manderley, to the valleys and mist-covered peaks of the Smoky Mountains, where my parents walked hand in hand. And now here, on the quiet hillside of this garden, where families picnicked or reclined in green grass dotted with white daisies.
We were enamored by their beauty, their promise of strength and resilience. We held them with thirsty eyes, hesitatingly touched the softness of their petals, allowing the beauty of their carmine, burgundy, and vermilion bodies to enrich our souls.
We whispered to them, and let them respond—not with words, but with color, form, and poetic silence. It was an unforgettable reverie.
With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home, India, and a heart steeped in humanity, Monita Soni writes as a contemplative practice. She has published hundreds of poems, movie reviews, book critiques, and essays, and contributed to combined literary works. Her two books are My Light Reflections and Flow Through My Heart. You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner, WLRH 89.3 FM.