No April Fool Here

Chasing sun and warmth this first April weekend.

From a walk through Central Park, bidding friends adieu on the Upper Westside, heading home to the Upper Eastside.

The lead up to Easter and Passover week brought faraway friends to town, a lovely opportunity to catch up, touch base, gain perspective.

The Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges from the Astoria ferry (that actually ends its route in Yorkville).

And with local friends, too. It used to be, before kids, that we locals gathered regularly. The children are growing up now and have their own demands and activities and schedules - becoming full formed human beings. I think we all miss some parts of the old days. The little rugrats are such spice, though. Wouldn't give them up. They say that with children the days are long but the years are short. I only get to experience them in years, so - oh my word! - the years FLY.

Looking back to the start of the route in the Financial District.

It just underscores the imperative to be present, to seize all the moments. To venture downtown even when the weather seems inclement and some of the friends less familiar, to ignore the insecure awkwardness of perhaps being a polite add-on. Friendships deepen with each encounter. 

And nimbleness, and grace, and flexibility, compassion for changing locations and times are minor, minor in the broader scheme.

Brooklyn waterfront, with the crane pointing at the afternoon moon.

Listening, learning, catching the nuggets are what it's about. Hearing your nomadic friend share her tale of falling in love with another nomad - how it is perfect precisely because it is so temporary and fleeting, and has no roots. Realizing how addictive that version of love can be for the nomads, maybe for anyone.

Realizing, also, how ill suited for one who craves stability. The Other might be wonderful in so many ways, yet still be a poor match. How finding that right mix between nimble rootedness might be the proper balance - maybe to live like a succulent, easy to root in harsh soils, able to survive uprooted for a time on stores of water in fleshy leaves, and then to set down roots into the earth on finding a hospitable spot, but capable of withstanding being dug up and relocated.

Leftover charcuterie platter for dinner. I had brought it to share - a bargain found on Sis's and my first trip to the Brooklyn Wegman's, after our Ikea run for free cake. The host said they wouldn't eat the leftovers, so, heck, I took them home. The key to successful potlucking is to bring things you yourself would love to take home.

My current working hypothesis is that eldests crave stability - because being pushed out front and having to figure out the rules is a stressor one does not easily outgrow. Being drawn to a nomad, though, is a hedge - a true nomad, however, would be unsatisfying. Middles, perhaps, rebel against the paths set by eldests, and, hence, become somewhat nomadic, and able to connect easily for all the bridging that they do. Youngests are just happy go lucky, secure in the way and the support that surrounds them. 

Innate leanings, maybe. But then, awareness, and then adaptability, are key...

... When the rain stops and the sun shines, opt for the ferry over the subway. When the sun stays and the afternoon finally hints at warmth, opt for a walk through Central Park over the bus.

[Edited to completion April 6, 2023.]