I went to the park to be inspired

ON SUNDAY MORNING, I typically rise from bed, lace up my sneakers, and set off swiftly for Audubon Park. As far as I’m concerned, my only intention is to run, to expend the energies I’ve recaptured from the week’s tiresome demand. Yet, many times, I find myself returning from the trip and, even before hopping in the shower to cool off, depositing in my journal a collection of thoughts and images that I gleaned throughout the journey.

For example, on many mornings I have noticed an elder, plump man who, day after day, sits on the same bench, performing on the same violin for, I imagine, no particular audience. There is something beautiful about him, about his actions. Perhaps it is not so much the man’s sweet-sounding music but rather his determination. He is, like the trees and the grass, always there, and that’s what makes him special.

On both sides of the trail are the squirrels, galloping freely across the terrain, and amongst them, I sense not innocence, but mischief. They’re always looking to make a gain for themselves, like artful dodgers. And, as I realize this, and the ways in which they complete the image of the park, the ways in which the park is not the same park without them, I also see how insignificant and meaningless they are, how the world would keep on turning without them. A paradoxical thought, yes, but nonetheless, a thought.

Whenever I reflect on one of my experiences running through Audubon Park, I tend to come to the same resolution: that I find beauty in the park because I’m not looking for beauty; that I notice things of import without trying to.

I realize that, because this is a Romanticism course, it seems, in all likelihood, a commonplace to quote Wordsworth. Thus, I should admit beforehand, although it probably goes without saying, that I have a twofold purpose in doing so:

Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives

In Wordsworth’s passage, I notice a replication of what our class was asked to do, namely, to suspend the day’s formal work in lieu of a lighthearted stroll through the park. Our goal was simple: to find something worth writing about, to try to be inspired.

So, I complied: I showed up; I walked with an open mind; I observed and gathered whatever details I could; and, at the end of the day, I found that I was in no way inspired, that I had nothing to show for the trip, except, perhaps, an empty water bottle.

And with this realization came another: that, in reality, it’s impossible to look or search for beauty in other things. Instead, things are simply beautiful, and we usually come to know that without the intention of doing so. Anything other than this is a contrivance, a fraud, a deceiving of both ourselves and others.

In sum: I went to the park to be inspired, and therefore couldn’t be. I was looking for beauty, and consequently blinded myself to it.