A Year in the Embrace of Central Park

As we commemorate the one-year anniversary of the arrival of COVID-19 in the United States, there will undoubtedly be much written about what we have lost, what we have learned, what has brought us solace and what we have mourned. It has also been 12 months since I took on the challenge of making my first Pesach amidst uncertainty, fear and grief. There are so many people I have to thank for helping my family survive this past year (our family, our friends, our colleagues, our pod, our school); but there is one unsung hero who, until this year, I took for granted: Central Park.

Could the architects of Central Park, Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, have known in 1857 when they sought to create a space “that would insulate New Yorkers from the surrounding city and offer them the respite of a pastoral landscape” how prescient their vision would be?

For so many of us, our rich and vibrant lives, which had previously been defined by a constantly changing array of scenery and color, were relegated to the contained and constrained walls of our homes. We spent days on end in front of a single electronic device. My home, which has always brought me comfort and sanctuary, suddenly felt limited and limiting. Our Pesachs, which had been filled with beautiful, lasting memories of time with our family, friends and shul, were suddenly thrust into an eerie isolation.

Central Park has always been one of the highlights of New York City for me, but never have I spent more time in its glorious environs than I have this past year. Never before have I truly appreciated what this vast wonderland in the midst of an urban metropolis has to offer.

Our journey in Central Park truly began in April with tentative walks, just me, my husband and our two toddler daughters once or twice a week. We never left our apartment, but we allowed ourselves this one seeming luxury, to circle the Great Lawn and visit the turtles. There were no swings and no playgrounds at this point, but there was air, albeit masked air.

In mid-May we tentatively, but joyously, met with two friends in the park who were turning four. It was our first playdate in months, and though we feared that we were being too brazen, being together — even if it was a dozen feet apart — felt like an infusion of oxygen, as if we had been holding our breath since March.

And then slowly the playgrounds began to open, and we emerged into the sunlight. Spector Playground on the Upper West Side became our second home. We created a small camp for our Beit Rabban pod in that gated haven and watched as our resilient children returned to the joy and laughter of childhood. As the weeks dragged on in the real world, this microcosm of hope and innocence helped to restore our faith in community and friendship and life.

No matter what the weather brought in the coming months, we continued to explore. In the North Woods we celebrated the glory of nature and the fun of fishing for leaves in the frigid ponds. In Wild West we tested our strength and invented an imaginary world while riding the tire swing. And in Diana Ross we perfected our scooter form and learned to keep our snacks away from mischievous squirrels. On 86th Street throughout the summer, we met weekly with the kids’ teacher for outdoor music classes. In the fall we tried our hand at soccer and in the winter we flew down the hill on our speedy new sleds.

But Spector will forever hold a special place in my heart. It is not a fancy playground and does not have any of the modern design characteristics of the newly renovated parks. But it became ours, and it was never crowded. The sand, much of which filled our daughters’ bath every night, became an amazing source of found treasure and the playing field for endless games of “Monster.” The concrete, stained from chalk, featured endless drawings and obstacle courses. The benches were where untold numbers of fruit-by-the-foot, Bamba, lollipops and yogurts were consumed.

We celebrated birthdays and even half birthdays; we celebrated graduations and the start of school; we celebrated one of our friends becoming a U.S. citizen, and we celebrated another friend’s heroic return from a complicated surgery. Hour after hour, Shabbat after Shabbat, the beauty and grandeur of Central Park restored us and strengthened us.

Of course, we also shared life’s challenges. We cried together for our deep losses and gave voice to our crippling fears. We mourned what and who was lost, but we allowed the light and wonder of our children to reignite our faith that one day soon we would be able to return to the world we once knew.

One-year anniversaries are times to pause with gratitude. While so many people’s lives narrowed in on the limited pixels of their screens or the empty chairs circling their seder tables, ours expanded exponentially into the 842 acres of a Central Park we never knew before. This year, although we will not yet be together with our family, we will have a more sincere and deeply personal appreciation of how to observe Chag HaAviv (The holiday of spring). We are so grateful to have discovered and explored this magical sanctuary and will forever be indebted to those whose vision gifted us this sacred space.

Rachel Wolf is the CEO of the American Committee for Shaare Zedek Medical Center in Jerusalem.