I love an early morning walk through the park with a little time to contemplate and massage my thoughts. Every so often a simple thing like a bench will catch my eye as well as imagination, giving me pause to consider the wealth of history it has been privvy to, the secrets it has heard whispered and the time that has passed around it. I wonder at times of those who may have stopped and sat for a bit enjoying and appreciating the brief rest, chewed the fat with a friend or just spent the day giving the personal dilemma or inspiration time to breath. I wonder at the folks who use this bench to mark time in their life, feeding the birds, reading a book or just watching the young grow older as the seasons pass, leaves fall, snow melts and flowers emerge. I think about the lovers who have graced the bench with their presence, the promises of everlasting whispered in the ear and the names hastily scrawled into the wood of the bench to prove it. How many have rested here before me and what of their history, if any, is left?
In my sentimentality, I can effortlessly imagine the years that have passed and all of the souls before mine that have been comforted under the tree overhead or waited patiently for the day to end or begin while in the comfort of the park bench. Imagine the comfort that this bench has provided, unconditionally, through every season and watched as one soul passes and another begins, passing down the relief to another generation. A marker of history and time, the bench sits patiently, waiting to serve without judgement.
I love the Sunday afternoon walks when the benches through the city are at full capacity and every millimeter of them are occupied. I can imagine that if they could feel in the same manner that I do, these benches would feel fulfilled with having their purpose realized and useful by so many souls. I imagine that these benches, if they could, would cry out in glee at having so much attention given to them and so many derrière a seat. I can also imagine that these benches have heard just about everything clandestine you can fathom and then some from the bitterness of angry words to the slurred words of drunkiness. The true confessional, no secrets here. Amid this woody park setting, and the ease of the day, sorrow and happiness are the same and everyone is welcome.
Sit a while and consider the bench.
Poznan, Poland
Park Solacki
October 20th, 2012
Love Letter to Poland
Thank you for reading and I hope that you enjoyed it. For the entire visual series, please visit here. Love Letters to Poland
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Erik Witsoe 