Two Sundays ago, I had gone to sleep the night before at some ridiculous hour approaching dawn as I so often do on Fridays and Saturdays—which really is a terrible habit, but time just seems to disappear from me those nights—and I awakened in the early afternoon to slanted beams of sunshine that lit the white walls of my room with long angular planes of light. It was a welcome change, as the days preceding had been overcast and wet.
I left the house soon after with vague plans to spend the day in a nearby café several blocks away, but the weather was so warm and golden that I turned right on 10th instead of going straight, and found myself in Prospect Park. I walked along a dirt path that cut and curved through the park grounds, keeping under the expansive stretches of shade cast by small scattered groves tall and rich with foliage, and after a while, stepped off the path and into the grass and walked until I came across a small hill, where I kicked off my sandals and sat down. I decided to spend the afternoon there, in the generous shade of an enormous tree whose long outstretched branches sank with the weight of its thousands of leaves that rippled and shimmered in the sun like millions of little feathers. >> Continue reading..