Regent's Park
I went in search of a theatre and found a park instead.
There’s nothing original about finding solace in nature. In fact, I’d always been annoyed at Canadian poets for doing so: yes, yes, trees and rivers are beautiful, but why should I have to read about them endlessly for my Canadian literature classes? Archibald Lampman, I may have visited your grave in the Beechwood cemetery, but we were never close: I remember complaining about the subtle mosaic you supposedly suggested in your sonnet; I remember losing points on my midterm because I didn’t recognize your obscure references.
And yet I thought of you while wandering through the Walthamstow marshes. I thought of you in Regent’s Park and Hyde Park and St. James’, amid the tourists and the dog walkers and the photographers and the families of four. Maybe you could have guided me down their paths and pointed out the string of metaphors that I somehow missed while reading your poetry. My response to nature is so naive, so common, so inhale deeply and exhale soundly, so look up at the clouds and find shapes between the blinking flecks of sun.
I always seem to find myself in a park when I have somewhere else to be. Keep checking my watch, making sure I have enough time to find the tube, catch the tube elsewhere, in time for work or a meeting. And this could be easily avoided: I spend my mornings moving slowly, staring at computer screens, perhaps enacting a lazy yoga routine, setting aside moments for a quick breakfast, reading a few pages of that novel I intend to finish. And I tell myself often, today I will go out early, because I always feel better when I go out, and I will give myself lots of time. Because I never feel like there’s enough time.
I think about time the way some people think about money. Obsessively. I used to be the most punctual person I know. But since the ever-increasing popularity of mobile phones (text: be there in 5 mins) and my relative proximity to places of interest (quick bike ride to the university means no need to worry about bus schedules), being exactly on time seems to have become a secondary consideration. Which doesn’t mean I don’t feel horribly guilty every time I’m a few minutes late, or have to rearrange plans, or cancel them altogether. But this isn’t even about that.
The problem, I think, is having unassigned time. While I was writing my thesis, I would wake up in the morning recognizing that I had twelve hours ahead of me to ‘get work done’. For some, that may be an inspiring realization; for me, it was daunting. Sometimes I organize my day thusly: 1 hour read, 1 hour write, 2 hours read, 2 hours write, 1 hour lunch, 1 hour read, 1 hour write… until the end of time. During high school and my undergrad, the time specifications were a little more, well, specific. I could divide up my time into subjects, into projects, into articles that needed to be annotated for the next morning. There were deadlines, and I found those very helpful.
(On a related note, I’ve heard of high schools implementing ‘due dates’ and ‘dead dates’, the former is the date at which the assignment should be handed in, and the latter is the point at which you can start losing marks for handing in your assignment at a later date. Thank you, education system, for confusing your pupils and helping them to develop terrible habits.)
Now, if I waste several hours watching sitcom episodes on the internet, no one will know but me. If I’m not spending every spare moment educating myself, reading, writing, exercising, practicing the flute, learning to cook, composing thank you cards, bettering the world in small but meaningful ways, who will take note except me? I need a reason for rising, I wrote once. I feel like I’m going off topic again. What was it I wanted to say?
Everyone has different ways of relaxing. My father listens to classical music and reads books; sometimes he paints. My mother quilts and works on puzzles with 1000 pieces; devours novels in bed. Some of my friends play video games or watch television. Others take naps. Still others go for a jog, go swimming, meditate, write a poem, smoke a cigarette (or what have you), pluck strings on a guitar methodically. Some do nothing at all (whatever that means).
Sometimes I go for walks in parks. I daydream about locking eyes with someone, smiling, starting an awkward conversation, falling in love. I imagine walking with someone else, not alone. I think about what else I could be doing, wondering if I should check my phone, go back home and check for messages. I compose status updates in my head that I will replicate when I return to a computer: Enjoyed walking in the park today. Rested in the branches of a beautiful tree. So peaceful. While content-wise this is an accurate account of my afternoon, my tranquil satisfied tone is a tad misleading. And yet, I will say this: that even though my scattered thoughts have a tendency to run awry like confused adolescents, thereby unable to prevent my mind from buzzing without respite, once in a while a cobblestone pathway that leads through a bushel of trees to a hidden brook arrests my breath for a single significant moment. And that, in itself, is enough.
