Monday, March 19, 2018 9:39 PM

In the Hundred Grandmothers' atrium, two garden gnomes relax on the ground next to a short stone pillar with a ceramic owl. In front of them: a frog. Behind them: an enigmatic statue on a curving base, a question mark practicing its noontime yoga. Spare trees rise from amidst dry leaves. Twin pipes descend from above to bring down water from the open sky. Despite their efforts, much of the ground appears parched. "This year, there were no spring rains," a Grandmother calls out, using a word I only know from Deuteronomy. Across the atrium from the dining hall, ghosts of reflections in the glass between us hover, drift, and fade away.