Intersections

 

Image courtesy of Syriac Press

The signal turns red just before we arrive at the intersection. There is no cross-traffic to trigger the light. It’s just shy of 6 a.m. and the gray streets are empty except for the occasional work truck festooned with implements of the landscaper’s trade. But municipal functionaries are failing if traffic is flowing, so I curse under my breath as we wait for phantom cars to pass. When the danger subsides and the light triggers green, we wheel into the parking lot and roll nose-first up to our spot against the chain-link fence protecting the fields of play. 

We’ve done this a thousand times before. It’s the morning ritual. Every day, I awake at first light to the sounds of Joji grunting, snorting, sneezing, and shaking. When it becomes evident that these noises will increase in both frequency and volume if I pretend to ignore them, I give up and get up, pour coffee, grab the harness and leash, and start for the duck park. Although this Groundhog Day pattern repeats itself every twenty-four hours, it is always evidently novel to Joji. 

The engine hasn’t died, but Joji is straining to get out to mark the entire park as his. As I lift him from the seat and gently place him on the ground, the leash immediately goes taught and I struggle to juggle belongings, lock the car door, and avoid spilling my coffee. We have a route and it must be followed. It’s the rules and no deviations are permitted. Along the far side of the soccer fields, past the basketball courts, across the lawn to the duck pond, over to the pavilions, past the tennis-cum-pickleball courts, up and over the playground equipment, through the parking lot to swimming pool, down the sidewalk fronting Royal Avenue, and then back along the soccer fields to the car. 

As we begin, I scan the parking lot looking for the familiar Chevy Colorado pick-up truck that belongs to the only other guy that is ever at the park this early. I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me. But he’s a fixture of my morning routine. A rival in a secret competition to arrive at the park first. Most days he wins. Occasionally I take victory by default because he doesn’t’ show at all. When that happens, potential explanations seep through my mind. Some are dark. I ponder them all as I walk through the “forest,” a thin line of sycamore and green ash trees that parallel the soccer fields.

Near the basketball courts we cross paths with an older, dark-complected gentleman out exercising. Although it’s in the fifties, he dons long pants, a down parka, ski gloves, sunglasses, and a tuque as he marches laps around the perimeter of the courts. It’s a bit of an odd routine, but he’s a happy guy and we exchange greetings as we pass one another.

We angle toward the pond where a resident flock of Canadian Geese float gracefully in the steaming water. It’s all very idyllic. Canadian Geese are regal creatures. But they are also aggressive, boisterous, and foul animals. The sidewalk and grass here is littered with their excrement which resembles greenish-white Lincoln Logs. Joji decides to leave his own contribution to this vast collection, and as I bend down to pick it up and bag it, I can’t help but think about the absurdity of what I’m doing. 

The park maintenance crew starts early, and by the pavilions, we meet a young, bearded worker alighting from a maintenance vehicle to open the bathrooms. The tennis-cum-pickleball courts are nearby and the homeless community is stirring, so the restrooms need to be open for business early. When the worker dares to greet us, Joji is triggered and begins barking aggressively. The worker rolls his eye knowingly. He has a Joji too.

We move across the lawn to the playground. There is a dog poo bag dispenser here, so I cache a few extras in my pocket. As I pull and fold the bags, I survey the adjacent parking lot looking for a Silver Honda minivan and the face of the homeless woman that drives it. At least I think she’s homeless. I see her sleeping in the van and using the park bathrooms, so it seems a reasonable assumption. But she doesn’t fit the profile. She looks remarkably well-kept for her situation. Still, there is something off about her. They way she speaks. The way she acts. I can’t really put my finger on it. We smile and greet each other as we go in opposite directions. 

Near the community pool, we say “hello” to a jolly older guy with bad knees who is out for an early swim. He wears flip-flops and drives a late model, convertible Ford Thunderbird that blares calypso music. As we walk alongside one another chatting, he mistakenly tries to make friends with Joji. Joji snarls. The swimmer laughs it off and waves at us both as he heads for the pool and we enter the home stretch of our walk. 

The Chevy guy, the court marcher, the maintenance man, the homeless lady, the calypso-loving swimmer. Beyond a nod, a wave, a “hello,” I don’t know any of these folks. In any other circumstance, none of us would even see each other because of differences in age, culture, language, interests, political affiliations, religious beliefs, and class. Our orbits simply don’t align. Chance, or perhaps what Carl Gustav Jung called synchronicity, is the only reason our paths intersect at all. And yet, I can’t dismiss any of these people as complete strangers. They occupy a sliver of my daily life, a few brief moments in my twenty-four hours of moments. And the duck park is the unifying force that brings us together, our single point of commonality. It is where our life spheres overlap. 

Mathematics can explain this collision of worlds through a mind-numbing formula that allows us to calculate with precision the area of this shared oneness. It’s an eye-glazing computation for all but a select, educated few. Fortunately, John Venn devised a more egalitarian method for illustrating this same concept. Unlike mathematics, Venn’s simplified diagram permits ordinary folks to visualize areas of commonality without the need for advanced training in trigonometry and differential equations. 

On a more mystical level, in ancient symbolism, the almond-shaped area formed by the intersection of two overlapping circles is known as the Vesica Piscis. Serving as an emblem of the divine and often used in holy iconography, this “fish bladder” symbolizes creation, the womb, infinite energy, and divine connection. In non-theistic spiritualism it can represent the merging of opposites: light and dark, heaven and earth, masculine and feminine, yin and yang. In that context, the Vesica Piscis represents a state of balance and harmony between oneself and the universe.

The temporal and spatial merging of opposites. Balance and harmony with the universe. Transient kinship. Strangely, the neighborhood duck park is a catalyst for all these things. It is ground where paths merge. Where disparate lives momentarily intertwine. Where tiny areas of commonality can be calculated to several decimal points. And where lives intersect in a physical manifestation of what mystics might call a Vesica Piscis.