i daydream a lot. like, a lot. an unhealthy amount that will probably end up with me in the direst of situations. but, i shall burn those bridges when i reach them. "reverie" will be an anthology of the pipedreams that i am not ashamed to share – rather, more than enthusiastic about it. welcome to the first of many; i hope you will hang around for more of the dreams that i dream.

one of my favorite reveries is the one where i'm a botanical illustrator between the 19th and 20th centuries.

i'd live in hallstatt, in a small rented lodging on kirchenweg strasse. i'd live alone and prefer it. i'd be the "fraulien" whom the townspeople would look at in disapproval – they'd tut and shake their heads at my breeches, my boots, my messy hair cut short and choppy to keep it out of my eyes. they'd yell at me to slow down as i'd run through town, up the hiking trails into the pines and ferns of salzkammergut. huffing and puffing, with my quintessential satchel bouncing against my hip, i'd find the perfect meadow. it'd be my "office" for the following couple of weeks, until i collected specimens of the flora, documented them to my heart's content. my days would go by drawing and painting the leaves, the flowers, the roots, spines and tendrils and fruits, seeds and pits and nodules, right down to the anatomical accuracy observable on my large magnifying glass – a treasured inheritance from my librarian mother. every day, the time would pass bringing along the dusk – heaven's slow surrender to night's dark seduction. i'd stop only when the sunbeams dimmed, and pack up my art supplies, watching the sun emblazon the sky in pink and scarlet. i wouldn't stay too long; the trials get deadly as the night inches closer. i'd be back in the warm, paraffin glow of the town by the time the sky blacked out, and turn back once to look at the salzkammergut alps – looming silhouettes of jagged mounds, black teeth on the horizon.

i know i shall return there again, tomorrow. and the day after. and the day after that. till i have illustrated every little plant. but for now, i'd trudge homewards. my little lodging would be a humble space on the upper floor of a seamstress's showroom. she couldn't afford to run a double-storied space (because who in a village as tiny as hallstatt can afford sequined and pearl-embriodered gowns?), and so she's rented it out. it has a large room housing my bed, my workspace, and my kitchenette. one wall has a door that leads into a bathroom, and the remaining three walls are covered with herbs and weeds hung out to dry, bookcases, and jar-holders. i'd heat a meal i had purchased – the last of the leftovers from the inn at the edge of town – eat in a hurry, then change into loose nightclothes. but sleeping is out of the question for the moment. i must make the advertizements i'd been commissioned by the businesses on the main square; they're my sole source of income, my trade. i'd settle down on my table by the window, which during the daytime blessed me with the brightest sunlight. carefully, in tender grasps and steady movements, i'd clear the herbarium sheets, pressed flowers, and vials of preserved plant parts, put them away in drawers and on shelves. then i'd gather my nibs of various sizes and gradients, my inks and paints and dyes, and get to work. the night would reach witching hour by the time i'm finally ready to turn in.

on the weekends, i'd take the little ferry across the lake to bad aussee, and submit extras of my illustrations to the newspaper houses and zine printers for a chance to be featured. it'd take toiling, struggling, and unshakeable perseverance – because i am a woman – for the publishers to even consider featuring me. but one day, one day i'd make it. i'd be in a zine that has copies reaching all the way to salzburg. then in salzburg, publishers would call me in for illustrating more flora and fauna, for science papers. with this turn of luck, i'd dream bigger; i'd want to be known as the person who can show the world plants that they'd normally not find in their neck of the woods or their bust of the wilds.

soon, however, that dream of fame becomes irrelevant, for i'd receive a letter. a letter of magnanimous significance, one that'd change my life forever. it would be a letter from elizabeth britton. yes, elizabeth gertrude britton who was making a sound name for herself as an activist for the protection of native flora in the american states. she'd ask for an apprentice, or an assistant, and she'd have put sycamore keys and a few american dollars in the letter. for someone who makes an earning as meager as me, for someone who only ever dreamed of leaving austria for another country, that letter would be a surge of disbelief – the wind knocked out of, the need to pinch oneself to establish reality... an opportunity of a lifetime.

obviously, i'd agree. i'd write back saying that i'd accepted and was beginning my journey to the united states. money that madam britton had sent, along with some that i'd earned by selling my furniture and utensils, would be enough for the trip. on my last day in hallstatt, i'd kiss the door of my little lodging – i hadn't spent much time there, but it was still home, i loved it all the same for keeping me safe and sound, alive to see this day. i'd hug my seamstress landlady, wave goodbye to all the businesses whom i'd made ads for, and take the boat across the lake to bad aussee for the last time. in a month, i'd reach the shores of the united states – a country they all called the land of the free and brave, of opportunity and dreams. they've only just inaugurated the grand statue of liberty. it'd be a wonder i'd get to see.

madam and sir britton would be kind enough to receive me at the docks. they'd take me to their estate, and during the ride along new york city's grimy industrial districts, out of the suburbs, across a county of farmlands, i'd come to learn much about the couple. including the fact that they had no children. their pursuit of scientific knowledge was of sole and utmost importance. i'd be so impressed, wide-eyed with wonder and enamored by this dedicated woman of science and her equally dedicated husband. they'd say their estate is small, but i come from a single-roomed house, and to me it is gigantic.

the very next day, i'd begin my apprenticeship. i'd present my portfolio of austrian and alpine wildflowers, the brittons would be in awe of my attention to detail. they would begin with english lessons – sitting on wicker chairs settled in the grounds, reveling in summertime and literature, i'd learn to speak, to write, to read the language. they'd also teach me how to use microscopes and it would open up a new world for me. i'd see things tinier than my humble magnifying glass had ever shown me, and i'd render them on paper for madam britton, who – once satisfied with the depiction – would then label the parts and teach me about the same. months on and i'd be quite adept at labeling and identifying various parts on my own. from apprentice, i would be raised to student and teacher's assistant to sir britton at columbia university. and that's how a girl with no formal school education would go on to have a degree in botanical science. life with the brittons would be whirlwind days of discovery, new knowledge, hiking, trekking, traveling all over the united states in search of boundless flora. other days would be slower, calmer, breezy – whence the britton household would just catalog and bind herbaria, classify, study, write about, illustrate plants after plants after plants. they would be happy with my work, my skill, and my eagerness to learn.

the time would come for talks of building a garden and science center for all branches of botany. then it'd be approved by many education bodies and the ministry, and the building of the new york botanical gardens would begin. for the first four months of 1891, all of us, along with the other co-founders and members of the torrey botanical society, would travail away at preserving, curating, planting and landscaping the various sections and hothouses – exoskeletons of glass and wood encasing verdant viscera. i'd have the task, the absolute pleasure, of curating the bryology section with madam britton. by april, it would be time to inaugurate the new york botanical gardens. it'd be a warm day, all of us smartly dressed for the ceremony. a lovely, successful inauguration; new yorkers cheering, the mayor beaming with the acquisition of the first keys. the brittons acknowledge me and my aid in the efforts in their speech. they'd look so proud, and i'd feel just as proud.

i'd live a full life, even if i would die young. tuberculosis would claim me. but i'd die happy and thankful and looked after. i'd be the child the brittons would finally have. they'd bury me on the family property in moravian cemetery, staten island. they'd put my degree, framed in fine baroque carved wood, over the fireplace mantel of their parlor. that'd be my legacy.

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