Looking up, you can see the parameters. Concrete, glass, and brick towers form a neat border, high above the tallest canopy of trees. Yet within these locked in acres, about 840 of them, the trees breath for all the teeming numbers of New Yorkers who inhabit this island. One step inside, and they begin to slow their pace. The head down, deliberate stride morphs into a stroll. The luxuriant greenery muffles all the abrasive sounds on the streets surrounding the park. Paths that wander replace the grid, and I watch people's faces take on a softer look. Some smile back, or even nod a hello. It is in the midst of a March madness, with temperatures approaching eighty degrees. Already, magnolias are splashing their big, bold pink and white petals. Crabapple and plum blossoms are bursting open, revealing delicate shades of pink and purple. And witch hazel offer its spidery, yellow wisps. The walkways are filled with families and strollers. Solitary folks walk their dogs, stopping to let them enjoy being outside as well.
I am drawn, as John Muir muses, “I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.”
All through the green spaces are black rock formations, finely cracked old age wrinkles of geological proportions, more beautiful than the statues dotting the park. These massive sculptures remind me of how nature always trumps man. but within those skyscraper walls surrounding Central Park, each person seems to breathe in its precious gift, exhale a small bit of joy. Perhaps they take one big gulp of gentler air, before they leave, holding it in their heart as long as they can.
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