“They Never Had a Chance.”
Hi There,
Springtime! I’m amazed annually at how rebirth unfolds during March. And this past Saturday was my moment to fully ensconce myself in this “month of recovery” after a challenging February.
It was a foggy, damp and chilly day when I had nothing pressing to do besides being. So, I explored my beloved village as if for the first time. I was delighted by the first daffodil spotting. I spied an early tree budbreak. And I became sentimental as I noticed a patch of dainty Snowdrop flowers hiding in plain sight, along the same sidewalk where dozens of dogs walk their owners.
I then find my way to the stillness of “the stage”— an elevated viewpoint that delights locals and visitors alike. The fog begins to disperse, and the sun sneaks a few peeks. The National Anthem pours through the silence from a West Point ballgame across the Hudson. I take a mental snapshot of how this all looks, feels and sounds. An inner peace prevails.
The river is especially still. A freight train rolls south along the opposite bank, its hundred-car expanse wider than my eyes can consume. At times during its slow, steady arrival into my life and its languid departure, the only evidence of its existence is a rhythmic locomotion, the fog providing drapery for its peaceful passage.
I swing over to serene Dockside Park— home to thousands of personal memories. It’s been bittersweet to visit there lately, as the construction in-progress of a new erosion-proof shoreline disorients the senses. Temporary barriers, dump trucks, backhoes, and limited access disrupt the park’s aesthetic green-space beauty, adding visual noise to my view of the local hills beyond.
On this day, as I near the north end of the park, which opens into a beloved grassy expanse, I audibly gasp! Four glorious, familiar, hundred-year-old trees had just been felled as part of the project, leaving a battlefield of limbs and trunk segments strewn like defeated soldiers. These poor trees never had a chance. I stood, stunned, with tears streaming down my face.
As my eyes digested the carnage, implemented to “protect the park”, I was curious about my emotional reaction. How could I have shifted from contented (grateful) to devastated in matter of moments? Did my despair relate to my love of trees in general, or to these specific trees providing such nourishment in my life? Perhaps it’s the symbolic depiction in my mind of a battlefield as my heart continues to sink in light of the injustices of war.
Or is it an internal struggle— the processing of paradox? To make things “better’’ there must be change and sacrifice. I know intellectually this park renovation will be an improvement, but at the expense of nostalgia.
That's one kind of paradox. As I continue to marinate on emotional ambivalence about, well, many things, I invite you to share your thoughts about yours. Then, drop by next week to see the direction of my thought process.
Cheers!
-Deborah
Deborah Goldstein
DRIVEN Professionals / Forbes / Linkedin
info@drivenpros.com | LinkedIn
DRIVEN Professionals, 35 Adrienne Lane, Garrison, NY 10524