The Brooklyn Botanic Garden is usually the perfect destination to seek solitude and quiet while communing with nature, but during the Cherry Blossom Festival held each spring, the grounds are transformed. The crowd and sounds are impressive with good reason. Although this year the date did not correspond with the esplanade in full bloom there were still enough trees and tulips and events to warrant the visitors’ awe.

Amongst many scheduled activities, including traditional Japanese arts, games and music, there was the Sakura Matsuri Cosplay Fashion Show. I noted that numerous visitors, seemingly all in their twenties, wore an array of elaborate hairdos, make-up and attire. Large animal-like ears, wigs, parasols, swords, wispy gowns, contact lens of unusual hues, garments befitting action heroes, geishas, aliens, and nymphs were donned. Assuming there was a theme or characters unknown to me, I asked a woman wearing some aspects of the above mentioned what her costume was. She replied that she was not wearing a costume. This was how she dressed every day. Was that true for everyone strolling the grounds? I can’t say.

We do not need to know of Einstein or physics to understand the relativity of time. It may not be in the way scientists envision it, but we have experienced interminable minutes and hours that seem to end within moments.

I look back upon certain chapters of my past and wonder how I accomplished all I did in the waking part of twenty-four hours.Yet other times I need a week to accomplish a small portion of those same tasks.

Time is a strange entity. Despite the tools for precise measurement, its transmutability continues to amaze me.

Progress comes in many guises.

I remain in awe of the Chrysler Building and Brooklyn Bridge, but shudder when I see photos of the original Pennsylvania Station wantonly demolished and irreplaceable.

And what of the first inhabitants who knew only quiet waterways, vast meadows, and unobstructed vistas of the sky?  What would they think of the metropolis that is now in place? Would they admire it while the sun’s rays burst on panels of sleek glass and steel?

The concept of beauty evolves through time.

I am ambivalent about progress and change.

Nostalgia is a powerful force that seems beyond our control. It stirs in us a yearning for earlier places, earlier times.

What purpose did it have for our ancestors? Did nostalgia provide them with a desire to return to familiar lands? Is it a vestige of their lives as nomads?

Does nostalgia provide us with a sense of comfort in new and unfamiliar surroundings? Does it serve any purpose at all?

The art of storytelling has been around since ancient times; it has not lessened its power to enthrall. A talented raconteur can spark our emotions and bring an event imaginary or otherwise into our lives.

We are invited to envision a world molded by spoken words using methods no different from our forebears. The only special effects take place in our minds.

There is pleasure to be derived from a well spun tale .

There was a time not too long ago when people speaking aloud on the streets, alone, might elicit a glance, a stare or an avoidance of some kind. But now I hear a stream of one way conversations that does not alarm the passersby.

We all assume, correctly or otherwise, that the person is engaged in a conversation with someone else via some means of technology.

But the prevalent solitary chatter still catches my ears and eyes.

I suppose as long as we do not forget how to speak to each other face to face there is no need for concern.

With a welcome respite from the winter weather, I strolled in the almost forgotten warmth of the sun.

My steps took me through busy streets and tranquil lanes all with something to espy. I listened to birds with songs throughout the day.

A walk across the Brooklyn bridge offered the vantage of spectacular views above, beyond and below. The moon was glorious in the night sky and almost full.

Yet not a penny was spent to enjoy each thrill.

The names Bert and Ernie were familiar to me as two of the beloved Muppets from Sesame Street, but nothing more.

There is a sweet little shop in my neighborhood that sells plants and floral decorations named, Zuzu’s Petals. A charming name for a charming store, but again I thought little of it.

And then I watched for the first time in decades, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” a classic film deserving of unbridled praise.
Who are George Bailey’s best friends? Bert and Ernie. Yes, perhaps a coincidence but it is much more fun to imagine that the Muppets’ names are an intentional homage.

And then during the film, I heard, “Zuzu’s petals.”

The petals belong to Zuzu Bailey, George’s youngest daughter. She has  brought a flower home from school and discovers a few petals have fallen off.  George pretends to reattach them but secretly slips them into his pocket rejoicing later on “Zuzu’s petals…Zuzu….there they are!” (Telling anymore of the story would be unfair.)

But now the names Bert, Ernie and Zuzu ring with new resonance and a touch of joy.

Although we have been told it is best to live in the moment, it is difficult to resist the pull of nostalgia from an untold number of stimuli.

The bite of a madeleine is known for producing a flood of memories in Proust’s, À la recherche du temps perdu. Andy Warhol changed his perfume often marking a period of months, so that by taking a whiff from one of his many bottles, he could evoke a specific frame of time. Sometimes while looking at ourselves in a photograph, we may feel as if we are there again. A song can transport us to another moment in our lives.

The senses seem to be ever ready to pull us back into the past.

Yet there are those who question the possibility of time travel.

For years I used the word “skyscraper” without giving it much thought. But teaching the word to a foreigner made me realize its literally meaning for the first time. It was the exact translation in his native tongue.

The origin of words continues to interest me; it demonstrates the interconnectedness between us.

If we think of the word “glace” which means ice in French, it is pronounced the same as “glass” in English. Since ice and glass share such a close physical resemblance there is little chance of this being a coincidence.

My inquiry into the etymologies of “ice”, “glass” and “glace” however, does not seem to support my theory, but I remain undeterred.