Halfway there

Above: Cygnets and duckweed on the Lullwater. (Say it softly, it's almost like praying.)

In January, my blog-quest was a simple one: Go to Prospect Park every day for a year, and show or tell you about something marvelous every time. Now, at the year's halfway mark, how's it coming?

So far, my scorecard disappoints me a little: I've done 148 excursions and posts, which means I've gotten to the park on about 80% of the days of 2008 thus far. But most days I missed were swallowed up by real-life scheduling conflicts, and only a handful by procrastination or sloth. Certainly, things got easier in the second quarter, with its gorgeous respite from bare trees and freezing fingers. (Although I remain amazed at the richness of the park in dreary winter; finding something to marvel at on every single outing has been the easy part.)

Spring rocked. From the chill of early April to the barbecue smoke of Memorial Day, I stalked frogs, geese and turtles, and chanced on Muppets, drummers, and a marching band. From the archives, I unearthed maypoles and miniature yachts. In the field, I watched as a diva's stage arose within sight of a beach for dogs. At the Saturday Greenmarket, root veggies gave way to tender asparagus and succulent strawberries. My relationship with the park deepened, as I joined the Prospect Park Alliance and scored my first scoop--reporting the debut of plans for a spectacular new skating rink. And I kept discovering surreal urban hideaways, most recently the Ravine and the Rose Garden, causing me to wonder if the park is perhaps bigger on the inside than the outside. My little adventure even made it onto public-access cable TV.

But most of all, this spring in Prospect Park was a place where I faced down a bunch of fears. Some related to personal safety, in isolated spots like Lookout Hill and the Vale of Cashmere. (I went, and lived to tell.) A lot of them had to do with cycling, as I struggled to train for a 100-mile ride to Montauk using the Park Drive as my track. Fear of dying on the hill in cardiac arrest. Fear of going fast, and of never being fast enough. Fear of padded-butt stretchy pants, pedal cages, and bike pumps. Fear of getting mugged for my new bike. Fear of looking like a loser in front of all those pacelining Lance clones. Fear of riding in: traffic, rain, cold, heat, darkness, a crowd. Most of those fears had been banished by May 18, when I crossed the finish line in Montauk after 100 km (not miles—another goal "adjusted" by real life). Thank you, Team in Training.

Oh, and my brain-chemical buddies have been along for the ride--in Franciscan terms, I might call them Brother Depression and Sister Panic--to sit on my head, grasp me around the neck (lightly, thank God) and hang onto my ankles in protest as I go my way. The park does not banish them, but its infinite variety of encounters with Others (animal, vegetable, mineral and most importantly human), and its lavish sensory overload, have loosened their grip time after time. The simple act of taking a picture seems to annoy and weaken them, since it literally involves focusing on something other than myself.

Now, at the six-month mark, this project that was born as a whim on New Year's Eve has evolved into something more profound and gratifying. The park is my urban Narnia, where seemingly anything can happen—an everyday fusion of history, nature, and Brooklyn's carnival of cultures and subcultures. It has become a prism refracting the colors of the community I call home, and I can't imagine ever growing tired of exploring it or running out of discoveries. Not for six more months, anyway.

Summer is calling. See you out there.

Comments

[Michael]

Thanks, it has been a great ride so far!

[Peregine]

You've done just fine.
Those of us who live near this great resource don't get there near enough.
You are an inspiration.
Bravo

[Gloria]

When my brother and I were children (during the 40's), our father took us to Prospect Park often, and to the Botanical Gardens, the Library, and the Brooklyn Museum. Many pictures are preserved in my memory including a small rose garden enclosed by cast iron fencing, and somewhere beyond a meadow, a wooden slat seat built around a very large tree. That was a lovely retreat, approached by plantings of marigolds and petunias. Prospect Park was and is a magical place.