Central Park yesterday morning was frozen and treacherous and filled with snow and felled trees (and the crews to take them away). But walking through the branches that blocked my path, I though only of that series of questions from Virginia Woolf:
“Am I here, or am I there? Or is the true self neither this nor that, neither here nor there, but something so varied and wandering that it is only when we give rein to its wishes and let it take its way unimpeded that we are indeed ourselves?”
To walk with wet feet in the damaged park on a Sunday morning before converging with a group of familiar faces is to understand how not be cold and to be aware of the upcoming winter and be unafraid.