Letters from the Catskills: The Art of Lingering
There’s a bend in the Beaverkill River, right beneath the old covered bridge, where time stretches out like sun across water. I found it in my final week of summer 2024 with my mom and sister Meredith and promised myself I’d return earlier and often during my next summer stay. Little did I know my days there be more than chasing the promise of cold creek water and a few quiet hours alone. What I found was far more alive than solitude.
The water, clear and fast, is always freezing—no matter the month. A rite of passage, really. First-time plungers scream loud enough to echo off the trees, and those of us who’ve been before laugh and cheer them through it. It’s a place where the river itself seems to initiate you: Come as you are. Leave everything else behind.
Above us, bald eagles glide and blue herons balance like monks on stones. Beneath the surface, trout shimmer like living prayers. And on the banks, barefoot strangers become instant friends.
One day, a group of close friends had set up a fire pit and was cooking paella—actual paella, saffron-rich and steaming in the sun. They passed out plates to everyone swimming. No questions. No exclusions. Just: “Here, eat. You’re here. That’s enough.”
There was no service. No WiFi. No one staring into screens.
Just people choosing to be where they were.
There was a joy that pulsed through the place, old and childlike all at once. Grown men doing cannonballs. Aunties with folding chairs and portable speakers. Once, I watched a full-on Dominican vs. Puerto Rican dance-off erupt in the gravel parking lot, followed by a chorus of high fives and salsa remixes.
It reminded me of the Lochearn Pool back home in Maryland from my childhood summers—the place where community wasn’t orchestrated, it just happened. Where you’d find yourself deep in conversation with someone you might never see again, but wouldn’t forget. Where the water held not just bodies, but stories.
The covered bridge creek became that for me—a place to return to the art of lingering. Not loitering. Not wasting time. But lingering. Staying past the scheduled departure. Sitting through the second breeze. Saying yes to the plate of food. Letting life happen to you, not through you.
Sometimes we need places that force us to unplug so we can remember how to connect.
That creek reminded me: We don’t always need clarity. We need community. We don’t always need a plan. We need presence. And sometimes - more often than not - joy is enough.
Let Joy Interrupt You: A Reflection
What if we let joy be the plan?
Let it interrupt your schedule, your silence, your need to figure it all out. Let it arrive as paella on a paper plate or the surprise of someone dancing beside you in the gravel. Let it be loud. Let it be fleeting. Let it be real.
Practice presence wherever you are:
Strike up a conversation with a stranger.
Stay five more minutes after you planned to leave.
Accept the invitation—especially the unexpected one.
Look up. Notice who else is there. Notice yourself, too.
Joy has a way of finding us when we stop reaching for control.
Let it come. Let it linger. Let it change you.
