Lounging on the grass at Sheep Meadow in Central Park. Baseballs, frisbees and soccer cleats whiz by. Lovers lie, quietly entwined upon blankets; families picnic, loudly. Chatter, music, laughter and life abound.
Suddenly, it hits me. I notice the corners of my mouth are turned upward, in ever so slight a sly grin.
It’s not about what I do. It’s not about finding a man, furthering my career, bemoaning the decline of opportunity for motherhood or wanting anything more than I have this very instant.
It’s about who I am.
And, this very moment, I am exactly who — and where — I’m supposed to be.