I approach the ice rink.

A young man is skating very fast then deftly turns his blades sideways and stops, creating with ease a satisfactory spray of ice. Many skaters are as graceful as he, skating forward, backwards, making turns, or spinning on one leg. Others are not.

Couples abound, hand in hand, mostly teetering, but wearing smiles. Friends chat lending a hand, if need be, before a fall.

There are children, many of them with an adult guiding them along. And there are slips and falls. After a spill some shed tears and leave the rink with a defeated air, some go over to the railing and grip tight, too afraid to move any further, and some laugh, get up and continue on.

It is a microcosm before my eyes.

The black ink on the newspaper displays familiar words. Rampage. Death. Violence. Fear. Tears.

Shattered lives are mourned.

We carry on.

We carry on with courage, strength and the conviction that peace will prevail.

Each morning a squirrel, usually two, are in the small yard behind my apartment, offering a glimmer of life in the wild. I think of them as a conjugal pair. They come to my window with little interest as to what lies on the other side, but rather to gain access to a fence and more importantly the trees nearby. I hear them chatter and scurry. Sometimes when I sit outside, they are so absorbed in their daily actions that they do not notice me, until they do, then startled they dart away.

Sometimes in the night I hear feral cries and ferocious combats between creatures unseen.

The other morning I stepped outside. There were a few white feathers on the ground and part of a wing that had blood at it’s edges. No further evidence of the bird remained.

The next day the wing was gone. Even the few feathers left no trace, having been dispersed by the wind.

The squirrels returned to where the violence that had been.

A friend and I headed a few hours north of New York City to camp and commune with Thoreau’s spirit. In the hopes of buying some local produce, we stopped into a small town’s single grocery store. The shelves were sparsely stocked, but we bought some produce, a few other items, and some peanut butter cookies displayed in a large jar resting on the counter.

The pears were sweet and divine, as were the tomatoes, but what astounded me was the taste and texture of those peanut butter cookies. Their tan, plain, hard exterior revealed a soft, delectable, mouth-watering interior.

A week or so later looking forward to another pleasurable gastronomic experience, I bought a peanut butter cookie in my local, highly regarded, bakery.

New Yorkers have a tendency to believe that the best of everything can be found within their small domain. And admittedly, our opinion is not completely unwarranted.  But one’s hubris virtually guarantees a fall or at the very least a more humbled perspective.

We gathered in Prospect Park impromptu. Some people sat in lawn chairs, others reclined on blankets, a few kept an eye on their dogs, while most of us just stood quietly and stared.The occasional obscuring clouds did not dissuade us.

It was not the birds, trees, or ray’s of sun that enticed us as they often do, but rather darkness emphasizing the moon’s eclipse, free from distracting glares.

We were transfixed on the orb’s evolving phases in a single night’s sky.

Kent Avenue’s bike path in Brooklyn follows along an area transforming at an extraordinary rate. Tall, gleaming glass structures with magnificent views of the East River and bridges contrast with the low warehouses, shops, and homes that have populated the area for years.

Just feet away from the once thriving Domino Sugar Refinery–soon to be transformed into housing–is a garden, advertising Sunday evening BBQs(seasonal, I presume), and a Keith Haring-ish decorated skateboard and bike park. I strain to imagine the area bustling with factory workers rather than those lazily enjoying the outdoor pleasures of a summer afternoon.

I am wary of change, but there are now ample parks and public areas that afford us all access to the vibrant life of a New York City waterway.

Although I do not follow sports often, I read a New York Times article on the football player Tom Brady. He allegedly damaged his cell phone to destroy incriminating evidence. A query had been sent out to the Times’ readers asking how they would destroy a cell phone if they had to. The survey elicited more than 2500 responses which included the use of blenders, mallets, grinders, fires, and microwave ovens. The Times published “the best.”

A number of people suggested throwing the phone into a river. Insuring the phone sank, they assumed the information would be lost forever. But my first thought was, “What about the river?!” No one seemed at all concerned about polluting the river.

In the early seventies a public campaign, from “Keep America Beautiful,” was aired on television. It showed a Native American, in traditional attire, canoeing through the ravages of industrial waste, walking through trash and then being hit with litter. The commercial ended with a close-up of his face and a tear falling slowly down his cheek. I’ve never forgotten it.

Knowing there are people who can think of throwing a cell phone in a river, I am hoping the commercial will air again.

A few New York restaurants offer long tables meant for sharing. However elsewhere, if needed, I have asked and been asked to share a table of four or two with people I do not know. I have rarely, if ever, said no nor been turned away. This is especially true for those limited outdoor tables on a glorious day.

But cultures vary. I asked, in Argentina, if I could sit at an empty table of two, pushed next to another, where two women were seated. The waitress refused. The women however graciously offered me a seat then explained that people there are not accustomed to sharing. We spent the next two hours chatting.

In lower Manhattan, not far from the Liberty Island ferry, there is a dining spot on a pier. Sitting at any one of the dozens of picnic tables offers splendid views of the Hudson River and beyond. One evening the weather was perfect for outdoor dining and the tables were full. Thus, I was surprised when I was denied a seat at a long picnic table where only two people were seated. I suspect the diners were foreigners.

Undeterred, I asked again a short distance away. This time I was offered a seat by a couple with smiles. After awhile the couple left and I stayed to revel in the view. Two women came, sat down, never asking if they could, and began placing their order.

I could tell by their accents, they were New Yorkers.

The fountain was a main attraction at the park. The hot afternoon enticed the children, mostly wearing bathing suits, to bring their faces up to meet the water’s spray. A few stayed beneath the falling water but most dashed in, then out. The parents and nannies waited a short distance away, as if such pleasures no longer interested people of their age, sitting on benches, engaged with their phones, reading material or each other as the sun’s summer strength filled the park, impeded intermittently by the trees’ shade.

The  park, besides the fountain, a contraption with bars, and swings, has two dinosaurs, clearly recognized but less defined in their features. No distinct eyes or mouth or detail are part of the design. But the recognizable forms are Brachiosaurus-like in odd yellowish hues.

The larger one stands about seven feet high with a small head, smooth back and tail. There is a young girl poised atop the dinosaur. She is motionless, then moves. Her body sometimes sprawls along the smooth form. Other times she sits, perched just below the head. Its height stirs no fear as she takes in the sights, clearly content. She descends then lithely climbs up again a few times more. She exudes an ease and familiarity that makes me suspect that this is not the first time she has come here to possess such joy.