On a Windy Good Friday
For DB
By James Park
On a windy Good Friday, before reading my
Grain, I went for a walk in the world.
I wandered over to Riverside Park and saw
there basically people and the evidence
of people in the struggle for life.
There are a large number of nice apartment
buildings along the park testifying to
the prosperity and ingenuity of man and
also to his need for a home. This he
seeks above all else.
And then I saw a variety of lives variously
engaged. There were those who had given up
hope. There were those who had never had
any hope. There were those waiting for a
miracle to save them, the connection, and
those waiting in various moods to die.
None of them seemed satisfied with what he
had done with his life, although this may
have been a projection of my feeling.
Even the smartly dressed young man with
the equally well dressed young lady,
obviously of the idle rich fully dressed in
the middle of the day, there were wondering
what people would think of them in
the park leaning against the fence talking
to each other in a nice way. There was
about them a deep anziety that they were
not dealing with in a satisfactory way.
And then there was young married rich but
trying to appear poor and like a beatnik.
She was very self-conscious as she stepped
up to set her child's pull-toy right
side up. The beautiful blue-eyed baby
couldn't have cared less I think the world
was all so new for him. I think that
if that damn toy had not been tied to
him, he would not have trailed it along.
I saw a strong well-featured Negro sitting
with his face in the wind and turning,
his head, to see who was passing behind
him. He was wearing a black leather jacket,
but wanted something better.
And a question came to me on the wind:
What shall a man do with his existence?
What shall a man do with his existence?
I saw a rusty spike protruding from a stone
railing where something hag been broken
off.
I felt the wind in my hair (nothing can be
at all like it). And I saw the whitecaps
on Lake Calhoun. And I was at home.
The rumble of tires was like a great
distant waterfall, unceasing powerful--
if you didn't listen too carefully.
And now I recall that there was a bird a
wee sparrow hopping and chirping on a
stone rail, he was happy, I guess. (Can
birds be happy?...or sad?)
And always the wind and the question:
What shall a man do with his existence?
Published in
The Grain of Salt
Union Theological Seminary, New York
Volume 10, number 13.
April 9, 1964
|
|