As we get older in our lives, we seem to become much more reflective about the
changing of the seasons.
There is a little park on the eastern portion of 14th street in New York City called
Union Square Park. It is about three blocks long and two blocks wide. Its rustic gray wooden benches
snake along the inner corridors of the park, and as a result, gives the the park a sense of belonging
to the entire community.
I would usually sit at the eastern side facing the center of the park. Trees inundated
the park everywhere the eye could see. Some were planted in neat little tree rows and others
were planted in a random fashion so that the eye and the senses were free to roam their loftiness and
their majestic and welcome grandness, imploring one to sit and take in the season that was at hand.
I rarely if ever missed an Autumn without sitting in this picturesque place.
I would go and sit, maybe two or three times a week, especially during the later portions of the
afternoon. Without fail I would hear the echoes of nature singing in a quiet and lush way. The upper branches
would sway in a slow and undulating fashion which caused the leaves to shimmer and be bathed in an
Autumn sea of crimson hues. And then it would rain. It would rain down a golden harvest of falling leaves
showing off their auburn robes of reflected sunlight as they slowly and silently drifted to the ground.
Only the slightest rustling of an Autumn breeze made you aware of their noiseless meeting places on the ground.
It was during moments like these that I reflected on the seasons of my life and its crossroads.
It was also where my fingers were inclined to write words of poetry that seemed to float along the pages non-stop,
as if these words were to perhaps to be the last sentences of my life. I would then pause for a moment and close my eyes,
open them and again continue writing.
I would always seem to find an unexplained surge of writing energy that would explode onto the pages of my mind,
which would then be transported on to paper. It was as if I were writing in shades of color, like a painter who
directs his visual art onto a canvas.
I suppose there are other people who have experienced this same inspiration
during the course of their lives. And for those of us who have not, take the time to view Autumn again for the very
first time.
Or better yet, if you are ever in the New York area, say around 14th street and Union Square Park,
take the time to find the benches that are there and sit. No, you don’t have to be a writer of sorts, just close your
eyes and let the sound of the season write upon the pages of your mind. And after you have savoured those thoughts
for awhile, open your eyes again and realize that you have just experienced an Autumn in New York.
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