I had a very different Sabbath Moment planned.  

And a walk in the park changed my mind.

Quite literally.

So the other Sabbath Moment can wait.

Yesterday I walked the length of Central Park. Strolled (or perhaps ambled) would be the more accurate verb. The day is sunny and warm (in the high 50s, virtually summer for the east coast this year). And it appears that the whole of Manhattan has the same idea. "Let's go to the park. We can breathe there."

As if some kind of mass migration from hibernation, spilling from the high-rises that frame the park.

I don't walk far before a bench beckons. The sun is a sedative, an intoxicating tonic soothing my disquiet and settling the nerves.

On a post nearby I see the sign, "The Great Lawn. Closed for the season to rest."  I smile, thinking that it wouldn't be a bad idea if we all carried a smaller version of that sign to hang around our necks every now and again.  The park is white, still blanketed in snow, but in the sunlight alive with possibility.

The world orbits by, parents with strollers, moms, dads, couples, tourists and lifelong residents, dog lovers and dog lover wannabes, and a virtual marathon of joggers.  Yes, cells phones are ubiquitous--but on this day, no one finds the need to talk on one; for on this day there is no need for distraction. So the phones serve their ancillary purpose, as a journaling devise, documenting the moments, the smiles, the vistas, and the good will.

There is something about the light I am guessing, relishing the warmth on my face. An invitation to explore, saunter, sit, savor, grin (with no real reason necessary), soak up oomph, point, laugh out loud, and refuel.

The voice of Louis Armstrong cascades in my head...

They're really sayin......I love you.

And then inevitably my mind wanders. The inescapable list and litany of things left undone. And an upcoming calendar chock-a-block. (Including a Sabbath Moment to write.)

I received several emails this week from people asking for counsel, or at least a listening ear. About life's vicissitudes; exhaustion and disappointment and grief and sadness (and in some cases a combination of all four). I am glad for emails, because I know what it means to wrestle with discontent, and I want to be helpful. Or better yet, insightful--you know, finding the precise words that will comfort and uplift. (Lord have mercy... as if words of compassion are to be judged like an Olympic event. "Very nice. 6.5 on Empathy!")

A young boy is eagerly telling his parents about where he wants to go and what he wants to see on this day in the park. And he stirs me from my reverie. And I remember, now seeing the joy on his face, the secret of the sun's tonic on this day, that life is not a race or a contest or a beauty pageant. It is a gift. Pure and simple. A gift that allows my soul to catch up with my body. 

Watching the boy take his father's hand and skip along the path, I remember another story and a lesson from another child. The first grade class assignment: to name the seven wonders of the world. Each student compiles a list, and shares their list, aloud, with the class. There is ardent interaction as the students call out entries from their lists: the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, the Amazon River, Yellowstone National Park, the Grand Canyon, the Taj Mahal and the list goes on. The teacher serves the role of cheerleader, "Class, these are great answers. Well done!"

One girl sits silent. She is asked about her list. She says, "I don't think I understand the assignment."

"Why?"

"I don't have any of the right answers," she tells the teacher.

"Well, why don't you tell us what you wrote on your paper, and we'll help you." the teacher encourages her.

"Okay," says the little girl, "I think the seven wonders of the world are... 

to see,

to hear,

to touch,

to smell,

to feel,

to love,

to belong." 

Bono, who was born Paul Hewson, had more than enough unhappiness and loss growing up to give a sharp edge to that wail, but not too much to kill his sense of delight.  From an article about U2's Bono