Walking Meditation in New York

Some days when I wander around New York in between meetings or brainstorming I become aware of how many friends I can no longer visit because they have moved, how many old haunts are vacated, how many trendy spots are now Chase Bank branches. The relentless churn of commerce and time does not pause for nostalgia. 

Why should I lament on change, unless I believe I am owed something. Unless I hold on to some expectation, I can't be disappointment. New York is a prayer wheel of equanimity, patience, and letting go. New places, new people, new time.

I thought this was going to be a rant. Some tirade against consumerism and New York City. The grooves of my well worn anger were so smooth that it slipped out of my grasp. In its place I held nothing but an awareness of what was once there. In place of that outrage something else appeared; a softer shade of humanity. In those creeping quiet moments when all my landmarks have been stripped and all the familiar faces vanished, I get lost in the prismatic enigma of a city reflecting my own mortality. My personal frustrations project out on to the city. 

I should be like so.

I used to be able to do that. 

Where do I find this old city?

I came back to this present moment. A row of beggars lined themselves down the village block. The autumn sun warmed the sidewalks and outstretched hands. She had money in her palm and told me that one hand washes the other. Together they baptize the face.