New Yorkers love to go, go, go, so I have been told.
It's quite evident in the short time between one train leaving and another coming; in the way a stranger will stop to help you get up the steps but not to hear your heartfelt thanks; in the honk of a horn three cars back a millisecond after the light pops from red to green. I have learned to keep pace down the sidewalk even in heels or with a stroller, how to weave through those who refuse to do so. I have accepted the inevitability of less sleep since my kids won't slumber late into the morning but I want to stay up until 11 for the nightly news. (That's a lie. Trevor likes to watch the news. I don't.)
But what has been a sweet surprise is all of the time just lying around New York. There are pockets of it everywhere, a leisurely treasure to be discovered throughout the day. There's the time it takes to get anywhere so that the walk is as much the point as the destination (which is quite philosophical without even really thinking about it). There are books read and composed on the subway trains; moments stolen on park benches in between points A and B, coffees savored and friendships bonded on sidewalks connecting one neighborhood and the next.
A smile spread across my face in the back of a cab the other night, the windows down, the city flying by, and just a few minutes where I had nothing to do but to let someone else do the work. I didn't have to drive that car, just like I don't conduct the subway, or [anymore] have to navigate every walking path. From here to there becomes time to stop and smell the roses or to mull over a good thought or to make friends through passing smiles.
I didn't have to slow down to find all of this. I keep speeding up really. I just had to notice that it was there.