Where the East met the West(side)

As many moments often find me and then leave me clasping and grasping for meaning, many more find me disenchanted and dissatisfied. I frequently am where I’d rather not be, although unsure of where it is I would prefer in contrast. I am referring to of course, the many moments of our lives that weave through to the next moment of inspiration. These are the instances that fill up the empty fabric of our lives; minutes and seconds that chip away at the core of our existence. It can be your job, your school your everyday minutia. It is but the singularity of happiness that stirs our own souls to persist, despite its rarity and despite its transience, it is our perpetual goal.

I was of course running 10 minutes behind schedule on my way to my latest rotation in the heart of the west side of Manhattan, Chelsea. The anxiety of lateness, beats like an incessant drum in my heart, and leaves my mind racing with worries. No other thoughts can coexist in times like these, but those of “I’m late, I’m late” thrive. During these moments it’s only these thoughts that surface, overshadowing possible revelation. In the midst of this chaos, it would never occur, that the act of ‘late-ness’ is not as momentous as my heart has calculated it to be. To ultimately arrive at a time that is 10 minutes after the imposed obligatory time of arrival, would not be of significant consequence if it were the case. In retrospect I find it strange to achieve such disquiet, for such an unworthy object as work. A damn shame, if you will.

As the anarchy in my soul approached its crescendo, this anxious unrest unraveled to find itself eloquently juxtaposed to the tranquility that only comes at 5pm on a Friday afternoon. And in this above average instance, it came at 2:45pm, early. As I stepped out on to the side walk, it was surely none other than the salty moist aroma of the Hudson River that seduced me to pursue it. And so I walked through and down the elegantly configured constructions comprising Chelsea and the lower West side of Manhattan in anxiety’s wake. And I took my soles cautiously whilst they nevertheless managed to accidentally slip out of my sandals to feel the warmed concrete, my feet rebelliously indulging in this fortuitous delight.

My steps took me to the farthest west side of Manhattan Island all the way to where the brick and fluid collide. This unlikely union did much to remind me that I was indeed on an island, as I so often forget. The geometrical buildings and structures mask its true nature. Manhattan is as if the great Architect poured pavement onto this muted mass of land in the Hudson, turned it upside down and thus dripped the Manhattan skyline to masterful perfection like a row of translucent icicles in the winter. I was unexpectedly overwhelmed as I embodied this feeling, as if I were the east personified, meeting the west for the first time. It was one of those rare occasions when your heart is at ease, though racing, it is content. One of those moments when you are exactly where you want to be, at the exact moment that you are there.

It was because when I looked at the river, the sun reflected off the water like electric sparks racing across the surface. Water it would seem is the Perfect Mirror. I sat on the bench and felt the sun pour down in undulating waves corresponding to the swells of my own heart. My heart swelled with those waves that danced playfully across the surface of my soul, that would thus harmonize with the tune of the heavy noises that occupy the atmosphere of New York City with thick viscosity. The river, what but a narrow sea…

Yes, I am exactly where I want to be.