I have never believed in signs. I enjoy reading my horoscope, and a friend recently got me into reading Tarot, but those are all about narrative lenses: How do these arbitrary but supposedly specific sets of insights wrap around and reveal parts of my story that are obvious and parts that are hidden?
But signs? The universe calling out just to you to tell you what to do, speaking through — what? Books and Instagram and a Broadway musical?
Finding a spot to sit and read and write and be alone in Prospect Park on a sunny Sunday in May is a challenge. I tramp around the paths of the Ravine in my hiking boots looking for a place where there aren’t too many people. It takes a solid half hour (and a weird pass by a spot where a young guy sits with a laptop while other guys, some with bikes, seem to hang nonchalantly around the area — I look curiously and then walk away quickly) before I find a fallen log next to the path that seems promising.
Even still, someone passes by me, and I can see another path nearby where people walk in both directions. It’s hard to be alone outside in New York City — sometimes you can almost achieve it if you keep moving, but if you’re sitting still, someone will always come by.
I’ve been thinking a lot since I posted last week about how much I left out of my New York goodbye. It’s so easy sometimes to write something and feel pretty good about it and want to share immediately. That’s the joy and the danger of a blog, especially when you’re the only person to tell you, hey maybe sit on this a little longer. That you should dig deeper, craft a stronger perspective.