"YOU CAN'T DO THAT," roared a chorus of authoritarian voices. The uproar had begged my attention and I lifted my head to watch an Hasidic male preparing to somersault onto the freshly-cut lawn of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Forced out of a sun-filled reverie, I gawked behind dark glasses at what was taking place.
   Throwing off a top hat, then anchoring his skull cap, he tumbled...one...two...three spins, churning up grass amidst falling cherry blossoms; a whirly-burly black and white beach ball recklessly barreling on a collision course headed...in my direction.
   Strange as it may seem, but his intrusion into my space came as if by divine intervention. Moments before his antic grabbed my attention, I had, in the safety of my inner garden, conjured scenarios for engaging one lone Hasidic male in a kind of Talmudic dialogue (...to explore his/my feelings about the Garden of Eden.)
    Perhaps, my thoughts had seeded an undercurrent which surfaced as his decision to somersault. As he'd encircled my vision, I, as if in a trance, witnessed an opportunity making itself manifest.
   Continuing to suspend disbelief, I stilled my presence to make way for Nature's unfolding mystery. In that state of self-blanketedness, I had become a participant...observant: By then the chorus had, in high-minded manner, shunned "that low life" and stomped off.