An Emptiness Filled with Much to See
The frigid temperature readings in New York City during a severe winter cold snap always produce a rare sight: a vacant, 843-acre Central Park carved from a city teeming with eight million residents.
It is emptiness with much to look at. Snow outlining the sharp angles of park benches, the remarkable hue of a cloudless blue sky and the parallel lines of tracks left by a single cross-country skier. It is an emptiness filled with the muffled sounds of tires chains on roadways, the faraway wail of wind, and the comforting crunching of snow against my boots.
There is a promise of the unexpected in a subzero-windchill day in New York City, especially in Central Park, as its Sheep Meadow appears startlingly vacant, entirely different from its warm-weather look, when park-goers fill the baseball diamonds, bikes and strollers share walkways, and the thirsty pause for drinks at the water fountain. Temperate New York is about throngs spilling out of subway cars in Times Square at rush hour, cramming midtown sidewalks, jamming the East Side Drive bumper-to-bumper. This dramatic switch from populous to desolate fuels my sense of excitement about what I'll find as I head deeper into the park.
The answer is geese. Dozens of them gather on the windswept reservoir ice, bills tucked under their wings to protect themselves from the cold. An icicle falls from a branch and slides to where they are stationed, setting off a rush of flapping wings and dissonant honking. Undeterred, a gray squirrel hangs from a tree to nibble an apple covered in peanut butter, one of the few signs of a recent human presence.
A barren Central Park at midday offers a rare break from congested city life, which often involves finding ways around and through large numbers of people, from planning where to wait on the subway platform to ensure finding a seat on the train, to fishing coins from my pocket to avoid waiting in line for change at the newspaper stand. New York City's pace is a staccato one of interruptions to sidestep, near-collisions with bike riders on sidewalks, or dashes through intersections against blinking "Don't Walk" signs. But today in Central Park, there are vast, wide-open vistas to be slowly savored and absorbed.
North of the Reservoir, I finally see another person. She stamps her feet and claps her gloved hands while several dogs, decked in sweaters and coats, leap about. Amidst a cloud of white breath, I catch her gaze, and I feel a quiet flash of connection, an unspoken acknowledgement of our sharing this unusual moment, its novelty based solely upon the fact that there are no other glances to be caught or avoided.
A gust of wind picks up some snow and spins it in a whirlpool. I watch the flakes circle round and round, enjoying its simplicity and beauty knowing that several blocks to my East or West, crowds of museum visitors are brushing elbows as they view the works of the most brilliant minds and skilled hands. The whirling snow spins longer and into a tighter and tighter circle, to a point that I think it will not be able to keep going. But the spinning continues while the sphere grows smaller and smaller, until it vanishes into the air.
The conflux of a high-pressure system and jet stream that created this cold spell will soon change and leave behind no clue to when it will appear again. The frigid temperatures will warm, and the crowds will return, and the wide open space will fill up once again. But its promise will stay with me and be remembered each time the blue lines arc across the evening news weather map. Maybe the next arctic blast will empty the streets and park again, and fill us with that promise of finding the unexpected. You just need to know where to look.
Copyright 2007 by Andrea Marcusa
