Every Sunday morning I go to Tompkins Square Park and I do nothing. On purpose. It's the only time all week I let myself.
I take the F to Second Avenue, grab a coffee from the place on Avenue A that gets my order slightly wrong every single time, and I find my bench. I have a bench. Don't tell anyone, it's mine now.
Sunday morning at Tompkins Square Park is a specific kind of magic. The park is half asleep. The dog run is already loud with its regulars, these little chaos agents sprinting in circles. Old men play chess. Someone's always doing tai chi near the fountain.
In October the leaves are finally turning, so the whole park has gone gold and rust and everyone looks softer for it.
I don't scroll. I don't plan my week. I just sit with my slightly-wrong coffee and watch New York be gentle with itself for an hour.
I grew up in a big noisy loving household in Ahmedabad where silence was basically illegal. Someone was always talking, cooking, arguing, playing something on the TV. So you'd think I'd crave company. But New York taught me the luxury of being alone in a crowd.
Sunday morning at Tompkins Square Park is me, present and accounted for, not performing for anyone. Not even for the blog, usually, though here I am writing about it.
A little girl chased a pigeon past my bench this week and shrieked with joy when it flew off. Her dad apologized to me for no reason. I told him it was the best thing I'd seen all day. He laughed. We went back to our separate Sundays.
This city asks so much of you Monday through Saturday. Tompkins Square Park is where I quietly get myself back.
Find your bench. Everyone needs a bench.
Love,