Fifth Avenue New York City

Brian and I are strolling down 5th Avenue in New York City on this busy Friday afternoon. We’ve just emerged from Central Park, where we meandered along shady trails and talked for over an hour, soaking in the beauty of the day and enjoying the company of mother and son. We find ourselves in a different world from the peaceful park- we’re on the street along with a multitude of other people, most with a destination in mind, and no time to waste.

As we walk along the sidewalk, dodging folks whose way we are in, and skirting around sightseers who have paused to decide what to do next in the city, I begin looking at faces and bodies. There are so many out here, and each one holds a story I wish I knew. The writer in me begins making up stories about the most interesting ones, and the philosopher in me is contemplating the meaning of life for each person I observe. I don’t personally know any of these people. I don’t know what their jobs are, why they are out here on 5th Avenue at 1:00 in the afternoon, or what their dreams are. I wish I did --- I can only imagine.

What I do ponder is what hides behind their faces. I put myself into the mix and project myself into some of the ones we pass. I am sure that each one of the people on this street in New York City has a dream of some kind. They want their life to count for something and they want to make a difference in some way, so that when they leave this earth, someone will remember them and miss them. Who knows what their jobs are or what they do for a living. Do they have families somewhere, either here in the city or somewhere else on this tiny planet in our vast universe, or are they alone in the world? Do they like their jobs? Or are they working simply to make a living so that they can do something that they enjoy when they leave at the end of the day? Are they counting the days until retirement, or thriving in a profession where they believe they are doing something worthwhile? The stories I could create are endless, as is this throng of humanity that we are brushing against as we walk.

So, what’s the point of this little observation of mine? It is merely one of the days in my collection, but I believe it is one that is significant. It is one in which I realize how small I am and how many other me’s there are out there in the world. I think of the children’s story, “Horton Hears a Who” – a person’s a person, no matter how small. New York City is just a speck, a grain of sand on the huge beach of the universe. But on this speck are people with dreams, ambitions, purpose and direction – all wanting something noteworthy to emerge from their existence here that will somehow make a difference to someone, somewhere.

And I am one of them, dreaming my dreams and wanting my own life to count for something.