It shines for what seems a wink of the eye. So easy to miss it unless, yes, you keep your eye on the prize.
I am by no means an expert. But I know where my favorites are: On the grounds of Brooklyn's Green-Wood Cemetery, down 24th Street between Fifth and Sixth avenues; a pair on the wee hill at the south side of the Third Street entrance to Prospect Park, and deeper in the park, at the western porch of the Lullwater Bridge with great views of the Boathouse.
It's the late November-early December bloom of my favorite pine: the golden larch. In bright slanting sun the needles literally burn in a golden glow that is as close as I'll ever get to the riches of Fort Knox, which is okay, by my lights, because you can keep that easy money, or your Black Friday specials, the first strains of Christmas carols, the bell tolls of the churches. Stop under a golden larch and, yes, you might just say (or sing) to yourself, the best things in life are free.
Next: Running for Your Life: Simply Right It Down
Running for Your Life: After Ferguson
The morning after the non-indictment announcement (Nov. 25)
in Ferguson, Mo., during a run along the ridge above the Vale of Cashmere in
Prospect Park, I heard a staccato burst of machinery noise, immediately
thinking that it must be related to some kind of racially motivated protest response
to the announcement from Missouri that was coiled in rule of law while
attempting to grind into pulp First Amendment expression in the form of press
reports and social media opinion.
Rather, the machinery noise was arising from a squadron of
leaf blowers – predominantly, if not all, blacks and Hispanics – who were
working to clear the exterior grounds of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.
It struck me that morning how far we have come from the Sixties.
That protests have swung from the streets to social media platforms. That
whites control the machinery of power; blacks, the machinery of servitude.
But, then, later that night, while dining at a Flatbush
Avenue restaurant, I watched as hundreds of protesters, some carrying placards
that read, Black Lives Matter, marched in the middle of the usually busy motorway at
a fast pace, with some marchers coming to those of us who were cheering them on
to come and join them.
It was before midnight when I started to walk in the direction
of the protesters. Under the arches at Grand Army Plaza stood a small army of
police; I counted a dozen 12-person vans. I came upon a second protest wannabe and
encouraged him to join me in my search for the marchers. We walked a mile or
more in what was ultimately a vain attempt to meet up with the Ferguson protest
rovers. Two others of like mind joined us and I ended my day that started with
a sense that we had come to a time in which street action – outside of Ferguson,
Mo., itself, of course – was over being in a small protest march of my own
making.
Next: Running for Your Life: Simply Write It Down
Running for Your Life: Eye on the Prize II
Today (Nov. 25) the winds came on a run. Thurber had the
morning; I had a blissful hour before going to work. These are the days that I
feel I can run forever. Brisk fall. Up and into the park, the leaves crunch
underfoot. I ran – and it was beautiful – but, alas, I did not catch my leaf.
Ah, yes, the leaves. I fear another season is upon me during
which I will not catch in my bare hand a falling leaf as I run through the
park. Tomorrow (Nov. 26), the forecast is for a final leaf shakedown of a nor’
easter, within which I will not run because of the very real possibility of
injury from fallen branches, a clearer danger now than in years past due to the
decline in tree maintenance from budget cuts that swept every public department
in my adopted country since Ronald Reagan and his merry men and women
perpetrated the fable that government defunding would encourage private
investment in job-creating capital, the bastard son of trickle-down, what was
good for the billionaires was good for the nation.
All of which is to say that if I were put odds on my
catching a leaf of those that will fall from near-barren trees during the days
after the nor’ easter, I’d have to put it down to about one in a million.
But, in my running-for-your-life life, I like those odds.
Next: Running for Your Life: After Ferguson
Running for Your Life: Eye on the Prize
I had just turned fifteen when the October Crisis was at its
peak. In those days in Canada, I didn’t follow the news very carefully. But
Prime Minister Trudeau had recently installed martial law following the
kidnapping of two dignitaries. Trudeau’s response to a question on the TV news about how far
he was willing to go in suspending civil rights hooked me, is the traceable
starting point to a lifelong passion in public affairs.
Just watch me, Trudeau said.
That phrase returns to me often. In Trudeau’s case, he
believed action needed to be taken to restore order. As he said in that
interview 44 years ago, “I think the society must take every means at
its disposal to defend itself against the emergence of a parallel power which
defies the elected power in this country and I think that goes to any distance.”
Just watch me.
We’re obviously talking about vastly different stakes, but
when it comes to personal choices we have to take action. In my case, believing
that moving to New York City in 1988 was the right thing, even when work and love
weren’t anything but sure things. Or, on a different level, going for a run –
not a light jog or a walk – but a fast-paced run every other day since I left
the hospital thirty-eight years ago after having recovered from serious blood
clots to my legs and lung.
Just watch me. The phrase pays for anyone. In a dead-end
job, believe in yourself and follow your passion. You’ll get what you want if
you keep your eye on your prize.
Whatever it is, don’t settle. Believe it or not, even though on the face of it the stakes are vastly different (martial law or not, lawyer Pierre Laporte was
assassinated during the October Crisis; his kidnappers served twenty years to
life for the crime), it does, in the end, come down to matters of life and
death. Your life … and keeping death at bay.
Next: Running for Your Life: Do Races Matter?
Running for Your Life: “The Last of the Just” by Andre Schwarz-Bart
I admire the tells of this title, a finalty that speaks of
end times – in the story of the Jews the drama never recedes. (Certainly that
has been my own considerable personal experience!)
In each generation there exists, as foretold, thirty-six
just souls who like a dispersed battalion of prophets submerges the self and
elevates the cause; in this case the survival of good Jews who are defined by
their righteous practices.
Me, I’m drawn to this book, written by Andre Schwarz-Bart,
because it delivers on a message that makes sense to me on this level: karma.
Acts taken now and in the past that are not visible to the naked eye; we are
not so simple, we creatures. We all have been affected by those who have gone
before, and those who play that special role in our lives today, and will so in
the future.
It is a humbling notion to think that we are to honor the just
souls, that, in the spirit of the myth given voice in this powerful novel that
takes us to some of the darkest moments in human history, throughout time we
will be blessed with “The Last of the Just,” the gift of their power and sacrifice.
Next: Running for Your Life: Eye on the Prize
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