Lately, I have been on the move. I head uptown on foot, I hop over to Brooklyn on the subway, and I drive through Spanish Harlem to leave the city. I see a man in a suit closing his iron gate under an overflowing window box on 82nd Street. There are children playing in the sidewalk beside mothers on stoops on 126th. There's an overcurated flea market on Lafayette with lobster rolls, asian hot dogs, and street style gamines searching for a ready camera. I keep my eyes open and I don't want to miss a thing. And yet, no matter what I see in the diverse neighborhoods I pass through, I keep thinking about one thing: the luxury of time.
When it comes to time itself, I've been a rich woman this past month. After passing through years like wildfire, I've been given the chance to slow down, re-evaluate, and breathe. Museums, parks, historic sites - these are the fruits of my labor these days. I walk away from the computer and I pick up the phone, I spend time with family and friends, and I reconnect with the physical world - the one that we never thought was a luxury until we started spending eight to twelve of our waking hours behind a screen, locked away in our corporate castles running circles against a clock.