
A “sit spot” is a place for contemplation.
I follow a guy on Facebook whose posts almost always make me think.
In the often-mindless sea of drivel on social media, this guy’s posts stand out.
They are poetic, soulful and intelligent.
Truly good stuff—material that makes you stop what you’re doing so you can ponder.
It feels good to ponder.
I went to high school with this guy 40 plus years ago on Long Island.
We were friends, not especially close; but I always thought he was a cool guy. He played guitar and always seemed self-assured—not an easy feat when you’re 17 and trying to find your way.
This guy, somehow he seemed older. More sophisticated than me and my gang. He most likely was more cultured–after all, our idea of intellect was glancing at Cliff’s Notes and pretending we read the often boring books we were assigned in English class. We preferred Sports Illustrated over Chekhov.
And Kafka…he didn’t appeal to our pedestrian tastes either. I think we read The Trial. I know we read Animal Farm. But to be honest, we were more interested in seeing if we could steal glances at our dad’s discarded Playboy magazines—tame stuff by today’s standards. And no, we did not read the articles.
But I digress.
My friends and I took a class called “Inference and Argument” and we did exactly the minimum to get by, not an ounce more.
It’s something I’m ashamed of now –skating by in school– not paying attention to what was important. I guess that’s part of being a kid. But it’s no excuse and I wish I had taken my formal education seriously.
But my friend —the guitar playing intellect —-well, he seemed different. At least I recognized that.
When you’re a kid you spend your days searching for yourself; trying on new identities to see what might fit.
As a result, when you stumble across someone who seems to know who they are it stops you cold. For all I know, my old friend was lost too. But he seemed self-assured and that’s what I noticed.
Anyway, decades fly by, and you lose touch with all but your core friends. That’s the natural rhythm of life. We make room for others. We evolve- if we’re lucky.
Then Facebook comes along and suddenly you ‘re-up’ with people you haven’t seen since the day you flipped your tassel and threw your mortar board into the air.
I reconnected with the guitar playing intellect and slowly got hooked on his poetic posts.
He still plays guitar , got remarried to someone he loves deeply and had a baby with her just a few years ago. At our age, that’s optimism.
All of it is fascinating—poetic posts, music, babies, a passionate new love. This 60 something is inspiring!
I’m glad he didn’t peak in 1982; I know a few folks who did.
He did not stay rooted in the glory days of racing cars down Nicolls Road, eating pizza at Mario’s and drinking on a fake ID in Port Jeff.
Those were good days, but the rest were even better if you’re lucky. I count myself to be one of the fortunate ones.
But I digress again.
Which finally brings me to the point of this rambling essay.
My guitar player friend recently posted about something called a “sit spot”. I had never heard the term. So I looked it up and it refers to a special place where you can go and gather your thoughts.
I like that concept, and I have a sit spot sort of. It’s in Lake Ida Park. I say sort of cause it’s not just one spot, it’s more an area within the park that I can go and collect my thoughts.
I went there after I learned my mother was sick and again after she passed. I went after my divorce and again when we had a fatal shooting when I was mayor.
I went after 9/11 and on Oct. 7 after learning what had happened in Israel.
I’ve been there a lot this year because I’ve lost several friends—a few before their time. And truth be told, there’s never enough time.
After reading the ‘sit spot’ post I had a dream about a place in the woods in what might have been Maine, which has become my happy place. A place I breathe better and feel most relaxed. I’m writing this while sitting in my kitchen in Portland, windows open, (fresh air is better than air conditioning), the birds are singing and its green—everywhere.
Anyway, I woke from this dream content. I wrote down these words to capture that feeling. That fleeting peaceful, easy feeling.
Here it is…thanks my guitar playing intellect friend. You continue to inspire this now aging man who remains a fan. P.S. what I hope you are about to read was just selected to be included in an anthology of poems being published by a group called Fresh Words. My first published poem.
You wouldn’t even notice it, not if you weren’t looking.
A little clearing, barely marked — just a dip in the trail where the moss thickens and the trees lean in like they’re sharing secrets.
There’s a ledge there, cool and smooth, carved by time and rain. My sit spot.
I don’t go there with an agenda. Not anymore.
At first, I thought I was supposed to do something — solve a problem, find clarity, reach peace.
But this place doesn’t ask that of me. It just asks me to stop.
To be.
Some days I sit, still as stone, and watch the wind make ripples in the canopy above.
Other times, I lie back on that ledge, stretch my arms out wide, and let the sky press down gently on my chest —
like it’s reminding me I’m small, but not alone.
The birds come and go, flickers of motion and music.
A squirrel chatters like I’ve interrupted his sermon.
Even the ants do their work with purpose, like they know something I don’t.
There’s a rhythm to the forest — not rushed, not lazy. Just… true.
When I’m here, I remember what it feels like to be a part of that rhythm.
To breathe like the trees breathe.
To think less and feel more.
I’ve cried here, laughed here, done nothing here.
It’s held all of it. No judgment.
Just silence, and green, and sky.
This is my sit spot.
Not mine like I own it — no, more like… I belong to it.
And when the world gets too loud, too fast, too sharp,
I come back.
And it remembers me.