Central Park Waterfall by Chris Lord (used by permission)
New York City exhales. Gone is the undertow of spring's willy nilly presentation. Cool one day, brutally hot the next while our house builds layer upon layer of carbon-dated cultures. Nowhere in New York is there greater proof of life's ability to breathe unencumbered but in the park centered in our soul. Central Park lights the stage in all her glory, for summer has arrived, voluptuous and steady. No longer do the denizens of the city fear nature's vacillating affection. We lounge on green beds protected by an open sky, free of concrete disappointments obstructing Apollo's chariot, which lazily rolls across our lives.
Broadway's multi-million dollar spiders have flown across our third eyes; Sondheim has left the building and is quietly listening in a silent moment of his life. Dancers relax from their barre as New York's mania wanes graciously through the brilliant leafy canopies provided by the miracle of an eternal stream of warm promise.
Outside the park's gates a different permutation of hot air fills our atmosphere. It rings in our collective ear, offending our essential heartbeat. Somehow, when we ride great bejeweled palominos racing musically, we soar above the din of confusion and hatred swirling through concrete jungles, suburban boredom and rural pastures, alike. We are safe in Central Park riding the carousel.
Jack, now 80, moves haltingly to his favorite bench in his sanctuary, the conservatory. He has traveled many worlds. He has scaled great rocks to meet his love, rambled in darkened environs and ascended to splendid castles so he may finally merge with the missing chord of his life -- Jill. She is here. She is there. Not long ago she deplaned this existence and Jack is dissonant. She eternally sits at Jack's side. She opens her eyes. Apollo's light bathes Jack as he, too, opens his eyes. A dog and 843 acres of water, woods and emerald textures unveil their collective soul to witnesses who have magically graced their DNA. It is Jack and Jill. They retrieve their lives in an infinite moment and their music once again flows through Victor, Ludwig, as Willy S. scribes each sparkle of their love into a web of bliss.
Jack and Jill finally need not travel any further up their hill. They arrive at the peak of summer; the beloved solstice that promises days, nights of incessant poetry.
Open your lungs on this long, sacred day. Dance with the summer breeze. Peace welcomes our ease.
If only it were so. As spring has tumbled towards the sun, tornados have ripped our land and cousins whose lives are shattered. Waters have drowned farms and families. Pain continues. Ghosts travel the byways of our lovely park. They stagger through gates of wars that are fought upon funeral pyres of lies. All this is true.
Still we move forward. Summer is gracious. Her light urges us to see clearly. As Jack and Jill, we live in many worlds. In the midst of our idyllic vision unfurl space, time and courage and let us remember other mountains, other paths, waterways, so we may populate benches in our glorious summer park central to our lives with true breathing corporal beings designed to live, love, not kill nor die.
Swan in Central Park by Dasha
(Used by Permission)