"...the calm serves as both herald and lamentation,
from serenity to storm, from tempest to tranquility."
By Patrick J. Walsh
The hurricane has passed. Today, in these suburbs north of
New York City, thick layers of clouds hover overhead; but the sporadic bursts
of heavy rain are now gone, and the fierce winds that marked the worst behavior
of the storm have now been replaced by an uneasy chill.
There are many streetlights not working today in the area
where I live. Beyond the entrance road to the park, there is no need for streetlights.
Many homes and many businesses — from delicatessens to
doctors’ offices, food stores to pharmacies — are without electricity. It is
difficult for people to shop, or conduct business, or do many of the activities
that they normally do.
In the park, there is calm — from the bony fingers of
branches in the nearby woods to the heavy wooden tables in the picnic area, the
content murmur of the stream to the skittering of squirrels through the downed
leaves in the grass. The park is at ease, its accustomed dignity intact.
 |
© Patrick J. Walsh
In the park, there is calm... |
People are sitting in their dark homes and in their dark stores
and offices, using the fading hours of daylight to try to figure out what to do
— where to go, or whether or not to try to go anywhere — before the night comes
again.
The surface of the pond in the park is smooth and silken,
and where there are leaves left on branches, the swatch of color hangs steady,
unmoved by the sudden arrival of the cold, still air.
The subways of New York City are clogged with water; the
shoreline of coastal New Jersey has been altered, at least temporarily, by the
force of the storm. Most of the trains that transport people to and from the
city and its surrounding suburbs have not yet returned to normal operation.
In the suburbs, downed trees block roads, downed electric
wires threaten pedestrians, and every light breeze brings a shudder, as people
try to move past the inconvenience and stress and hazard of the hurricane that
is now gone from this area.
In the park, there are trees that are split and trees that
are twisted and trees that are missing branches; but these are all from other
storms. The park has weathered other storms, and has largely avoided the worst
effects of this one.
Set aside as an intersecting point between the natural world
that was here long before and the suburbs that are even now swaddled in the
ribbons of their truculent infancy, the park absorbs the thrashings of the
weather with the same serenity it employs to cope with the daily exploits of
its human visitors.
It is cool in the park today. I feel cold as I walk. But it
is a freshening feeling, sober in the reflection it inspires about the
devastation of which nature is capable in its darker moods, and yet hopeful for
what it implies about the resiliency of the calm that serves as both herald and
lamentation, from serenity to storm, from tempest to tranquility.
No comments:
Post a Comment