A sculpture in the form of a garden aspiring to be art. . . In March 2007, I began visiting the Central . Garden at the Getty Center in Los Angeles regularly—one morning a week for six months, as it turned out. I wasn't exactly sure why. I later learned precisely why, but in March all I knew was that I would try to leave behind the tools of my trade: notebook, pen, writer's mind, habitual ways of thinking and seeing. I knew if I showed up with a preconceived idea—I will write a story about this garden—my mind would shuffle and organize in a certain predictable way. After four or six visits, and a couple of packed notebooks, I would have said: Enough. I can see the arc of the narrative, the ending. I would be all set—but, with my default setting. How might I rediscover my beginner's mind?
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