It’s a misty morning and I know rain’s coming soon, either that or insufferable heat, which is why I’m up at 6 a Monday putting my running shoes on. I’m headed to Prospect Park, 585 acres of green in the middle of Brooklyn. It’s a mile from home, a gem designed by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux after they finished Manhattan’s Central Park. Prospect Park opened to the public in 1867 and while it’s experienced a wax and wane of public interest through its lifetime, the Park flourishes today as a highlight in the neighborhood. Of all the times I’ve explored the park, no two trips have been the same and no trip is without some degree of lostness. There are forests, fountains, lakes and streams, waterfalls carefully constructed to look as if they’d always been there. There is a private Quaker Cemetery hidden on a hill, blackberry brambles, and stables and horse trails. There are several long lawny meadows that fill in the summers like a Georges Seurat painting.
I leave my apartment at a walk that turns into a run, entering through the Eagle Columns across from Grand Army Plaza, past the statue of James Stranahan, the Park’s father of sorts, its first Commissioner and a dedicated protector of Olmstead and Vaux’s vision. We veer right at the fork, running the pavement loop of West Drive that turns into East Drive. It’s a well-worn route among the local exercisers but it’s my first time trying it. The road is lined thickly with trees, elm and white ash, rising taller than I expect trees to rise in the City. I make it past the bandshell and the ball fields, past Quaker and Lookout Hills where I’m tempted to veer off and wander. Children who seem hardly old enough to be upright are in cleats and jerseys fumbling with soccer balls while mothers and nannies watch. Dogs run past with their owners.
And then, the lake. The green opens and there it spans, a wide mirrory gray to match the clouds. A swan swims with its puffy young cygnet in shallow water near the bank. I catch a few words off a conversation between two men. Something about spirit, awakening, and emotional expansiveness. There are people in fishing hats with fishing poles cast. A tired mother bends away from her crying child for a drink at a fountain. I won’t assume we are all here for exactly the same reason, but there is a necessary peace a place like this offers, especially when not too far off is the endless metallic rattling of trains and several million people trying to claim their place in a never-sleeping city.
Something’s in bloom and the air smells like honey.
A red-winged blackbird flashes her fire against the dull sky. I catch an oriole on her way into hiding. I lean in to watch the bumblebee and instead catch the damselfly, narrow and still.
As in all things, the closer you look the more you see. I get lost in the seeing and walking, grateful for time and the thoughts that keep me company. What, after all, is the point of this brief mortal exercise if we don’t stop to look while passing through?
Wherever you are, notice things always.
By the time I curve northwards to find East Drive I am tired. It’s a couple stops on the nearby shuttle train to get home so I leave the park through Concert Grove, past the unexpected busts of Mozart, Beethoven and Washington Irving. I’ve bypassed the Ravine and the whimsically-named Vale of Cashmere where I’d ordinarily start my trek, getting good and lost before I had the chance to be found.
I’m almost to Lincoln Avenue when I notice soft purple squishing underfoot and look up to find a mulberry tree, its branches hanging deliciously low. I spend the next several minutes collecting the berries in the front pocket of my pack. They’re delicate and flowery and just washed by last night’s rain. I eat a few right there for every few I save for later and get on the train to go home.