I'm in the pass-through room. This is the room that prior to my eldest son being able to walk, I would briskly follow the slate path in order to get to the next garden oasis, the next canvas of color in this conservatory. This room is cold, both literally and visually in terms of the winter whites that blanket the room. Ashy dusty miller, gazania, and perityle coat the floor. I am in the desert with only tiny pops of vibrant color to catch the eye.

This is the neglected room of the conservatory, though not by the gardeners who clearly tend to their prickly pensions lovingly. Neglected instead by visitors like myself. As I sit here, a young family quickly passes the Mexican cactus without so much as a sidelong glance on their way to the lush greens and yellows that beckon from behind the glass doors at the opposite end of this room. A group stops in front of me, a young couple, a set of parents, and the rest are perhaps a few family friends. They talk Tom and Marge Dickson and hotdogs. Funny how a place that calls us to reflect, such a contemplative setting, is so easy to block out. How often do I do this? How often do I miss what is right in front of me? I am usually just as distracted, passing through this room quickly to get to the next.

That is until Harry learned to walk. He loves this room. The cacti are "pickie" or "fuffy." The rocks, though clearly marked not for climbing, are his longed-for jungle gym. The plants, all at his level, an easy squat to sniff and ponder. Why so powdery? It is a textured room. Just his style. So much to take in - to see, to smell, to touch. But the adults, like today, quickly brush past us to the more showy rooms.

A little girl, stringy brown hair with baby-doll pink boots and matching coat, rushes in. She charges for the large rock outcropping. Pink boots kick up the cold grey stone. I wonder what she imagines this place to be.

The other rooms are breath-taking. The orchids, so fragile, overwhelm all the senses. But they are also showy, leaving no room to imagine what if. They put it all out there on display. In contrast, this desert landscape is a blank canvas for the imagination. Like the little girl in pink boots, my son wants to climb this room. It is his. There is so much that he can place on this room. Is the giant rock his own private moon, the cactus, some prickly alien life form reaching out to him? Or is the dusty miller a fresh blanket of snow in which he can make powdery snow angels? This room, which so many quickly pass through, myself included, is my son's personal playground. He is not distracted by events of the day or by a ringing cell phone. He clamors around the room, taking in every leaf and thorn, amazed by it all.

I can learn a lot from my little man.