That Place

Have you ever been in a place that feels totally, gloriously, vibrantly female? A place that immediately attunes to some inner vibration? A place that it makes your body sing? And you didn’t even know your body could sing. A place where you so effortless fit in that it makes you realize how much effort it has taken to fit in all those other places that are not this way, places where you have lived and worked, walked through, visited,places where you had to either figure out how to accommodate yourself, how to not be too conspicuously who you were (that is: female) or places where you had to be careful, be on high alert, watch yourself. This is a place that hugs you with a full-body hug. A warm, soft female body.

This is the place I find myself right now, and I am all but overcome with the privilege of being here. This place, south of San Diego just across the Mexican border, was founded almost 80 years ago by a Hungarian-born philosopher and health “cultist” and his Brooklyn-born acolyte wife—who after the professor’s death 40-plus years ago, dreamed a much bigger dream, took charge of this place, and while re-making it, re-made herself into a powerful (and ageless) business woman.  

For the past 30 years, this place has been re-imaged, nurtured (literally by hand) and built stone by stone, plant by plant by that woman’s daughter. She, the daughter, has designed most of the landscapes throughout the 32 lush acres of gardens. She has done this with grace and intention, with both an aesthetic and environmental consciousness, and with deeply feminine energy. The trick has been to create, out of earth, stone, and plants, a cultural, horticultural, and personal statement—a living expression—and make it feel as if it has always been here. And make it feel like you belong here.

It is the winding pathways that meander past little meadows and gnarled grape vines, across small wooden bridges, under arches, around boulders that sprout succulents from their cracks. It is the hidden benches,the pergolas, the smell of lavender and rosemary and sage. It is the gift of a tiny bottle of rose neroli oil left on your doorstep. It is this statue, my favorite of many on the property: her strong back, her luxuriant hair, how unassumingly, fearlessly she rests in child’s pose, how she glistens in the sun.

Thank you, Deborah Szekely. Thank you, Sarah Livia Brightwood.