wild city

As I waited in a line of blinking taillights to turn onto 72^nd avenue, I noticed the park caddy-corner from where I idled. It was so close to my house- I must pass by it a thousand times in a week- and yet I barely ever stop. This time, instead of driving by it, I jerked my wheel to the right and made my way into the shady parking lot. I found a spot underneath a tree, mine being the only car in the lot, and headed towards the trail I knew lay beyond the brush. I’d been on this trail a few times before, and I’d been delighted the first time I came upon it. This time, though, I was less enchanted. The trees seemed sparser; I could see through the leaves to the uninspired cement buildings that stood stoically across the street. The traffic roared through what should have been a peaceful and quiet space, drowning out the chirps of grasshoppers and the songs of birds that I knew were there.

Signposts decorated the trail, abandoned and useless in their emptiness. One of them announced a butterfly garden, but as I walked through the tangled mess of broken branches and vines choking out once verdant bushes, there wasn’t a single butterfly wing to be seen. In another part of the “wilderness”, I came across a shirtless man sitting mysteriously at a picnic table so hidden by foliage that I didn’t spot him until I was just a few feet from where he sat. Taken by surprise, I jumped back and managed a faux-cheery ‘hello’ before bounding away into the brush.

Desperately I searched for some sign of healthy wildlife, remaining hopeful that a swath of vibrant green life lay just around the bend. Instead, images of other emerald forests that I had known and loved swirled through my mind, making me dizzy with longing. I collapsed on a bench as tears clouded my vision, my heart in my throat, car horns squawking in the near distance. I longed for unadulterated rainforest, life pulsating brazenly from every sacred stream, every vine-tangled tree, every mossy stone. It wasn't just my mind and memories that longed for this; it was my body that viscerally wanted to feel a part of it's surroundings in that magical way that I know is possible.

I realized that I’d been convincing myself that I was happy to be here, in the city of my childhood, and, in many ways, I am. I can never be unhappy when I’m surrounded by my all-consuming family and all-knowing friends. It’s important for me to maintain these roots, to nurture them, but I don’t know how much growing I can do here. There certainly is growing to be done- for this city, at least. But I’m not sure if I can play a part in it. The movement is sincere, but it still feels forced to me. Forcing people to plant seeds, forcing people to see the beauty in nature, forcing myself to find peace and beauty in tiny contained squares of greenery surrounded by busy roads and high-rises on all sides. I’m not sure I can do it, especially when I know how life can be, so raw and so real that it seeps into your bones and infuses you with the wisdom of your elders- the trees, the streams, and the stones.