merrily we roll along
A tiny bark emerges from behind me, high-pitched and insistent upon itself. Almost like a squeaky wheel that’s seen too much life.
I turn and see a rail-thin man geared up like he’s about to break a Tour de France record. We exchange a few pleasantries before he pedals past me with his Pomeranian perched proudly in the front basket of his bike.
The dog reminds me of a coxswain, steering a sleek, carbon fiber rowboat through the muted chaos of Central Park.
I sit near the edge of Sheep Meadow and watch a group of Columbia grads pose for photos. The kind of photos you might look at again just once, but that mean everything in the moment. I’m probably in the background of a few of their photos. Out of focus. Half-shadowed.
It’s a beautiful day in Central Park. When the weather is warm it feels like the city sobers up just long enough to remember it knows how to dance. Everyone spills onto the sidewalks, bleary-eyed and brilliant.
Smiles hit different when there’s ample sun and no agenda.
I weave through pedestrians on my bike. At the edge of the bike lane I spot a scoop of ice cream on the ground.
I find a clearing and sit down.
As the sun beats down on the back of my neck, I think about a couple that dined next to me at a steakhouse in March. We spoke for a bit during the dessert service and I told them I’d stop by the new restaurant they just opened.
I haven’t found time to go yet, but each day is another chance to chase down a hot meal, and I can feel their place pulling at me. Sooner or later, I’ll answer.
I contemplate the fact that the city of New York has a real heartbeat. It’s not perfect, but it’s real.
We don’t need to be perfect either. We don’t even have to be in sync all the time.
We just have to wait for our cue… and when it comes, take our seat and become part of the damn orchestra.
A tiny bark emerges from behind me, high-pitched and insistent upon itself. Almost like a squeaky wheel that’s seen too much life.
I turn and see a rail-thin man geared up like he’s about to break a Tour de France record. We exchange a few pleasantries before he pedals past me with his Pomeranian perched proudly in the front basket of his bike.
The dog reminds me of a coxswain, steering a sleek, carbon fiber rowboat through the muted chaos of Central Park.
I sit near the edge of Sheep Meadow and watch a group of Columbia grads pose for photos. The kind of photos you might look at again just once, but that mean everything in the moment. I’m probably in the background of a few of their photos. Out of focus. Half-shadowed.
It’s a beautiful day in Central Park. When the weather is warm it feels like the city sobers up just long enough to remember it knows how to dance. Everyone spills onto the sidewalks, bleary-eyed and brilliant.
Smiles hit different when there’s ample sun and no agenda.
I weave through pedestrians on my bike. At the edge of the bike lane I spot a scoop of ice cream on the ground.
I find a clearing and sit down.
As the sun beats down on the back of my neck, I think about a couple that dined next to me at a steakhouse in March. We spoke for a bit during the dessert service and I told them I’d stop by the new restaurant they just opened.
I haven’t found time to go yet, but each day is another chance to chase down a hot meal, and I can feel their place pulling at me. Sooner or later, I’ll answer.
I contemplate the fact that the city of New York has a real heartbeat. It’s not perfect, but it’s real.
We don’t need to be perfect either. We don’t even have to be in sync all the time.
We just have to wait for our cue… and when it comes, take our seat and become part of the damn orchestra.
