I did nothing this Sunday in Astoria Park and it was the best decision I made all week.
I took the N train out to Astoria, which is one of those neighborhoods that feels like a different, gentler city. Greek bakeries, hookah lounges, families walking slow like nobody is being timed.
I grabbed a spanakopita and an iced coffee near Ditmars and walked to Astoria Park with a blanket I have owned for four years and used approximately twice. I found a spot near the water under the RFK Bridge and just lay down.
A Sunday in Astoria Park is a masterclass in doing nothing. There were teenagers being dramatic, uncles playing cards, a kid learning to bike and refusing to give up despite the odds. The pool was loud in the good way.
I did not open my laptop. I did not answer the group chat. I let one whole episode of my life happen without documenting it, which for me is basically spiritual growth.
There is a thing New York does to you where you feel guilty for resting, like the city gave you a mission and you are wasting it by lying on a blanket. But a Sunday in Astoria Park cured me of that for a few hours.
I watched the light change on the water. I ate the spanakopita too fast and regretted nothing. I thought about my dad, who is the world champion of sitting quietly and being content, a skill I clearly did not inherit but am trying to learn.
Around 6 the breeze came off the East River and it was the first not-brutal air I had felt all week, and I almost cried from relief, which is embarrassing but true.
A Sunday in Astoria Park does not go on your resume. It does not become content, or at least it was not supposed to, sorry.
I took the N back reading an actual paper book like a Victorian.
Rest is not lazy. It is maintenance.
Go lie on some grass. The city will wait.
Love,