A sacred space to be and to breathe

The park means family. My parents got engaged in Central Park - at the clearing by the bend in the creek. Moir park was there for my family on a tearful summer day in July 2020 for a socially distanced gathering following my grandma's funeral. We gathered under the big trees, at separate picnic tables, but together because of the park. The park is a safe haven. When I was barely able to get around after a car accident left me disabled for three years, the unpaved trail south of 106th offered a secluded and safe place for me to exist in nature. I could walk very slowly and soak in the forest air. I started to really see the birds and the tall oaks in all their majesty. I saw owls and eagles. I'd never seen an owl before. The park renewed my spirit during this difficult time. The park is everyday spirituality. It's trudging through the fresh snow on new year's day in the silence from a snow-covered world. It's the noise of the rushing creek after a spring rain. It's touching the new moss, safely hidden under the shade canopy of the forest, and it's placing my hand on the bark of the large oak and feeling the strength and steadfastness from the hundred years it has been standing tall. The park is sacred. It's a space to be and to breathe.

Please respect the park by not expanding the construction footprint into the still natural or regularly flooded areas. Today I walked on the trail by two large oak trees that would become casualties of the required clear zone for a new trail. The level of devastation planned through this sacred area is unfathomable and heartbreaking.