My office is located very close to Central Park, which I would consider one of the best examples of
landscape architecture: wild nature at the epicenter of a world of events—wilderness created by human
genius in such a way that it seems like it has always been there. Chattering streams that you can stop
with faucets. Forests for rambling where you can get lost. Huge boulders lying there from the ice age.

The park is the place where you can stop and think, just jump out of the marathon of everyday life into a
different dimension.

Under the huge natural umbrellas of the trees you can breathe in real and spiritual way. You can revisit
your memories. You can talk to people you love even they are not present on this planet. It is a
treatment for your soul similar to application of plantago for scratched knees. During my childhood in
Russia we treated all small wounds with plantago: just clean the wound with water and put the leaf on
your skin and you will feel better.

The whisper of leaves and rustle of bushes make unfairness less painful, slows down time, and
decreases tiredness.

During the festive foliage season l got a new patient in my practice. I liked him from the start. He was a
sporty, handsome gentlemen with a very positive aura. You could see in his eyes his interest in the
outside world. He was very elegantly dressed, with shiny shoes protected by rubber galoshes.
Besides its beautiful foliage in the fall, New York is also famous for rainy hurricanes. But for this
gentleman, shoes always have to be shiny despite the weather. He was going to the theater with his
girlfriend after our appointment.

He came to me because he was not able to breathe at night. He would stop breathing every five
minutes. He could not use an old-fashioned CPAP machine. First of all, it doesn’t look good on you at
night. Second, you have to carry the machine wherever you go—to the theater, to a restaurant, to
someone’s apartment. Going on a date with a small suitcase is not convenient. Especially for a
handsome single gentlemen who doesn’t know how the evening and night will unfold.

He used to own sleep appliance, but the dog ate it. One of his girlfriends has a basset, a nice brown dog
with big soft ears. He took out the appliance because he wanted to kiss his beautiful friend, but at that
moment the dog tried the sleep appliance in his own mouth.

I guess the dog was jealous of that kiss. But now the gentlemen needed a new one. And he didn’t have a
lot of time because he was going to a restaurant and the theater with another female friend.
My patient was really in a rush, but I really enjoyed his stories. He had been an art history professor for
an Ivy League University for 34 years. He had retired 10 years ago to devote his time to writing books.
He was teaching in Harvard, MIT, and Cornell. He used to live in London, Paris, and Rome.

I asked him which was the ideal city to live in from an esthetic point of view.

“Paris” said the professor. “In an ideal world, all cities would look like Paris…But New York is not bad
either.”

I was inquiring about the most difficult part of writing a book about the art history of the cities. He
replied: “The most difficult part is finding a cover for a book. It needs to reflect the main idea and attract
the reader’s attention at the same time. The reader should feel the hook, and desire to know the full
story. In general, even an historical book is always an encounter with the author.”

I felt a strong desire to read his books.

I can relate to the professor’s opinion from the point of view of my own profession. When people come
to my office, I put part of myself into my creations. I like when my patients share their talents with me. I
have a collection of paintings, books, movies, music, impressions from performances, and fashionable
clothing as result of our exchange of energy.

The professor kept talking about himself—his volunteer work in Central Park, baseball every Sunday, the
gym every day, his interest in cultural and social events in New York. He said, “My girlfriend calls me an
incurable optimist.”

The professor gave me a short overview of his impressive life. He was born in Brooklyn. His parents
came from Russia, Nignii Novgorod. His grandma used to sing him Russian lullabies before bed. He really
liked the cozy atmosphere of New York City in contrast to the obnoxious atmosphere of Ivy League
schools.

He is writing a book about Brooklyn now. He was explaining to me that it had been an absolutely white
Protestant neighborhood before Jewish, Italian, Irish, South American, and Middle Eastern immigrants
started “settlements” in different areas of Brooklyn. He spoke of how the consciousness of the people
changed along with the architectural components, from active hate towards different cultures to mutual
coexistence to pride in Americas as an immigrant nation.

My staff and I were fascinated by the professor. Even after he left, his positive and lively aura lingered.
I got home and had a strong desire to buy his book, to continue our conversation through the written
page. The first hit I got when I googled him was a story about the crash of a plane with the professor’s
daughter on board along with two of his grandsons. She had been a beautiful and successful
businesswoman from New York City. Only parts of the plane were found in the Caribbean Sea.

I could not stop asking myself: how much would you have to love your love life to withstand such tragic
surprises?

How can you stop from losing yourself in a sea of sorrow and keep putting on your freshly starched shirt
and rubber galoshes over shiny shoes on a theater evening?

How can you find the energy to visit the gym every day when you feel pain, tiredness, and discomfort
constantly due to age?

What chakras do you need to open to have the desire to feel emotions? What medication do you need
to take to be interested in new events?

The season of hurricanes passed. The glasslike sounds of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker melted into the
winter together with a white blanket of snow in Central Park.

Spring as usual brought new life. The Professor invited me to get lost in “Rumbler,” his new office.
We walked through Bow Bridge past the boats and European beech trees. Behind the tree tops we could
see skyscrapers and towers of “Dakota.” Small curvy paths, shadowy green ponds mimicking wild
nature. Blended benches from locust. Every bench has a small silver plate commemorating an
irreplaceable loss.

Family and friends tried to make memories material or create a small space for love and grief on Earth.
We arrived at an oak meadow. The professor has planted some oak trees. One is tall and elegant, just
like his beautiful daughter. Across the path he has placed two different oaks, thoughtful and dreamy
forever like a four-year-old. And funny and charming like a little one. You can see the character of those
trees in the careful placement of their leaves and unique positions of their branches.

In a hundred years the trees will grow closer together, and in their heights they will touch each other
with tenderness and care with the blowing of the wind.

The trees are placed in such a way that they will form an avenue in the future. The treetops will create a
shadowy dome. The hot Manhattan air will feel cooler underneath them. The loss of loved ones makes
you feel poisoned, like breathing carbon dioxide. Trees are designed to take carbon dioxide and make it
into oxygen. Trees help us breathe on our planet.

I showed the Professor small plants with oval leaves next to his daughter’s tree. He had not know about
the medicinal qualities of plantago for wound-healing. In a spiritual way it might be a message from his
daughter to her father.