Of an ordinary Monday

A story of finding peace and tranquility in Central Park on an ordinary Monday afternoon.

Stepping out into the cold refreshing winter air of New York City after my experience at the American Museum of Natural History, I thought that it would be a crime to let such a beautiful day go to waste and proceeded to take a walk in Central Park, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine.

As I was walking through the park, people watching all the while, it was difficult not to have the music from Sunday in the Park with George, a musical I recently saw on Broadway to seep into my consciousness. Soon the song "Sunday" started to play in my head, reciting the words I have grown to know and love.

“As we pass through arrangements of shadow
Toward the verticals of trees
Forever
By the blue purple yellow red water
On the green orange violet grass
In our perfect park
Made of flecks of light
And dark
And parasols
People strolling through the trees
Of a small suburban park
On an island in the river
On an ordinary Sunday”

— Sunday from Sunday in the Park with George

Sure it was not really a Sunday or can I describe Central Park as a 'small suburban park on an island in the river'. There was also the evident lack of parasols in the park which was instead replaced by cellphones held by virtually every living and breathing human being at the park that afternoon. Putting all that aside, the spirit of the song still felt true at that moment for me.

As the sunlight filtered through the trees and illuminated the path in front of me, I couldn't help but think to myself how beautiful the day really was. Despite the shouts of children, laughter from people talking with their friends under the sun, the steps of the runners making full use of the brilliant weather and other noises ringing in the park, it was still very peaceful.

I made my way through the walking paths and spotted the boating lake from the distance. The day was gorgeous with a blue cloudless sky and the yellow-orange afternoon sun shining brightly in the sky. I hopped across the paths and some rocks to find myself on the shore of the nearly still lake. Except for a few ducks and geese hanging around the shore, there did not seem to be any other movement disturbing the surface of the lake.

On the shore numerous people were enjoying the beautiful sunshine like myself. Some were sunbathing while others were climbing the rocks around to find a good spot to take pictures or skipping stones on the surface of the lake. A young child probably about 3 or 4 was playing near the edge of the rocks with his mother watching anxiously from behind, calling out to the child occasionally and asking him to be careful. Across the lake the skyscrapers of Manhattan stood tall with one my my favourite buildings in the city, Vinoly's 432 Park Avenue, standing in the middle, sticking out like a sore thumb. The almost still lake reflected the image with flaws, like an old silver looking glass, one that was warped and bent with age. It was perfect.

A couple approached me to ask for my help to take a picture of them with the beautiful lake and city in the background. I tried my best and took a few shots which they seemed happy with. It was weird, but even a small thing like that brought to me a strong sense of joy. It felt like realising that I was not the only one who felt that this was an incredibly beautiful day and an incredibly beautiful scene that we had in front of us. 

Walking back and away from the shore of the lake, saying goodbye to some of the ducks as I skipped along the stony paths, the words of the song Sunday once again rang in head.

As I passed through an arrangement of shadows, towards the vertical of trees, forever. On an ordinary Monday.