A Slow Stroll

A visual story—and invitation

Let's go for a walk. Meet me by the park entrance. I’ll be in a floral dress layered with my favorite trench coat. Or, if it’s warmer, dark denim shorts and a blouse with fun sleeves. Cherry red heels. Brooklyn is in bloom, and I want to match accordingly. But don’t just look at me. Wave hello—then look up at the Damask roses peeking over iron gates and geranium pouring from window boxes. 

With each step we take, other beings will come into view. We might look down out of shyness or courtesy—but we’ll glimpse the magic they leave behind: chalk murals or secret messages from neighborhood kids, the lingering tapping sound of small paws trotting by, piles of pink petals from trees in transition. 

It never gets old, right?

If you’re having trouble looking forward to these little things, simply look forward at what’s right in front of you: billowing party streamers tied to staircases, vintage cars parked on nondescript street corners, patches of dappled light on the pavement. 

There is so much to worry about, but there might be even more to notice. 

Even in a modern city, nature has a way of reorienting perspective. My mind drifts to Shelia Heti’s Pure Colour—an expansive novel about grief, humanity, art, and love. “Seeing an audience of plants just sitting there seems like doom and uselessness to a human,” Heti writes. “But to be the audience of creation is a wonderful thing. What a privilege to be able to sit there and watch it! To be entirely filled up by life’s beauty! It’s a privilege to have front row seats. But it was not easy for the plants to learn how to sit there. For what reason are they tasked with being the audience of creation? Oh, for no reason. Oh, because God is an egoist. Because God is an artist. Because even though creation is flawed, God is secretly proud its aspects, and loves his work being noticed.”

What have you noticed lately?

I’ll go first: the plants, leaves, and flowers in and around my neighborhood. The new buds in my mind and heart. Some are dormant; others are already bursting, trying to break through the world’s despairs that cloud our collective vision. Maybe in that pain, I’m learning to see things anew. I don’t have the answers yet, but I wonder about them. I walk toward the questions. I try to notice which people are asking them.

Look at the time and how far we’ve gone. Let’s turn here like we’re turning a corner toward something better, even if, in the meantime, we’re just heading back home, to the office, to where we started. Back to things that are part of life but not necessarily part of living.

Let’s remember this slow stroll. Before we know it, we’ll be inside again, turned away from the beauty and truths we took in with our eyes—minds—wide open.