There Is Always

During the years I lived on 58th Street whenever I gazed out our fourth floor window, I could easily look over the brick wall surrounding Roosevelt Hospital. While the view from our location did not include the main building, it was possible to see the tennis court as well as a smaller structure, the morgue.

As young as I was, I chose to concentrate on the tennis court. Each spring a crew of workers would descend on the grounds whipping it quickly into prime condition for the doctors and nurses on staff who enjoyed the sport.

I tended to be a dreamer, even as a child, and often thought about the time in my life when I would be "grown up." I fantasized not only about learning the sport, but also owning the lovely white clothes the players wore. As I watched from my window, I also wondered if it would be necessary to complete my dream by becoming a nurse. Since I had a morbid fear of blood, I realized that wasn't a probability, but it helped me avoid dwelling on the ongoing procession of bodies constantly being wheeled to the morgue at the end of the tennis court.

That was when I learned there is always a horizon if you look far enough.

Many years later and long after I had relinquished any hope of entering the medical profession or attempting to play tennis, my husband and I bought a house situated on a corner. We heard discrete murmurs of disapproval from both family and friends about the location, but we loved the house and ignored the criticism.

We shared this home for 57 years. During that time whenever we looked out the front door we saw only the beauty of the park across the street. Both of us enjoyed watching families with young children learning to skate and ride bicycles on the path across the road. I suppose we could have focused more on the increasing traffic that circled the corner, but rather we preferred to enjoy the panorama of changing seasons, the beauty of the foliage, and the ongoing transition from skates and bicycles to sleds in the wintertime.

We decided to enjoy the horizon rather than reflect on the negative issue of traffic.

Recently, I left this home relinquishing the proximity of a beloved posse and the ambiance of a large dwelling. My new home is efficient, comfortable and luxurious albeit small. I no longer hear the whiz of traffic, but I do have a magnificent view of a park where there is one lovely lone bench in the center of the path. I look out my window daily and see elderly couples just sitting quietly, or youngsters tossing a ball, and sometimes, lovers holding hands as they walk towards the bench.

Then I remember the other horizons I have had in my lifetime and wonder if perhaps there is a connection.

And, of course, there is. There is always a horizon and a choice for us. It is always our decision whether to dwell on the sad, the negative; possibly seeing a morgue rather than a tennis court or traffic rather than a park. Possibly even concentrating on the difficulties of relinquishing the familiar or watching the beauty of a park bench and those who use it.

A horizon is always there. It is our choice whether to look for it.