It’s 4th of July weekend and the summer is accelerating around me. Feelings of finite freedom left over from childhood and the constant desire to savor them never seem to leave me.
New York is such a different city this time of year. Coats and boots have been shed for sundresses and sandals and the countenance of the city itself feels renewed. At long last we don’t need to hurry from one small spot of warmth to another, one encasement to the next.
I mentioned to friend that I had never really noticed the architecture of my block, which happens to be pretty impressive, until sometime in May. How could I have when my face was turned downward for months, in effort to shield it from the wind?
Now I’m relishing the opportunity to discover it all.
One of my most coveted pastimes is my regular run to and through Prospect Park. All told I usually get in around 5 miles and the experience never fails to increase my appreciation for the the culture and unique beauty of Brooklyn. On Wednesday I set out around 6pm and drank in the sounds and smells and snippets of conversation in endless languages as I ran. From my door through Crown Heights to Prospect Heights and then finally around the loop of the park the run does so much more than give me the respite of exercise.
My neighborhood is primarily West Indian, which of course means amazing Jerk chicken and Curried goat, blogged about and celebrated in the past. Deeper then that though, there’s Patwa, a lovely, thick melodic language that hints of French and Creole and all things warm and tropical and alive in the sun. Conversations roll down from balconies and off of stoops and seep into the city itself and into me and I pass by. Hasidic moms push strollers and chat in the somewhat harsher sounds of Hebrew, a language that is such a part of my own history and childhood that I often feel a strange sense of comradery as I pass them by.
On to Grand Army Plaza where online cycling and running groups are almost always forming and where my wonderful farmers market finds a home each Saturday. The park itself, in its lush summer greenness is an almost shocking step into nature and open space. One moment I’m immersed in honking and the screeching of buses braking and the next the loudest sounds are of my own breathing and the threads of conversation I weave in and out of. This is my favorite part of the run. It’s when I really try to push myself to go a little faster but still maintain a pace which allows me to take in the beauty of the park. I read that Olmstead actually preferred Prospect Park to Central and I think now I really understand why. Perhaps there is bias in that but it doesn’t bother me, I take so much joy in this place I can’t imagine Brooklyn without it.
The final stretch of my run is tough, as its all uphill, but I stick to the south side of Eastern Parkway and pass the huge and ancient looking Brooklyn library, then the Botanical Gardens and finally the Brooklyn Museum. The scenery alone helps propel me up that last hill. As I duck back into my familiar neighborhood and walk the last block or so I always take a moment to enjoy the pace and rhythm of my neighborhood and that of my own breathing. It’s amazing how the two fit together somehow, so perfectly.
I’ve found a home here in Brooklyn and it seems that each day my bond with it deepens.
Off to have brunch and coffee with a good friend and then, perhaps, a run though the park. The sun is shining after all.
