I have a confession to make. Somehow, in going to Prospect Park every day for over a year now, I got fatigued with it.

Years ago, I thought such a point of view would be impossible. When I first moved to Brooklyn, Prospect Park seemed epic and unknowable. It came with a romantic backstory of being Olmstead’s masterpiece.

(An aside: If you don’t know anything about the history of Central and Prospect Parks and Frederick Law Olmstead, Devil in the White City is a great book to read. It delves into his mental illness, as well as his despondency over his vision for Central Park being marred by carousels and petting zoos. With Prospect Park, he was able to create the completely transporting oasis that he had always dreamed of making).

Back to the ennui. It started sometime in the dead of winter, when the endless grey, black and brown failed to inspire me. I had traveled down nearly every road and I felt the park had become too familiar. I had lost my appreciation.

The other day, I found myself talking to someone about joining the Prospect Park Alliance. “I come here every day,” I said. “So I feel like I should pay them something.” However, we agreed that it wasn’t like joining a cultural institution, where you get a discount in the gift shop or a tote bag. What do you get out of it?

Walking through the park on Friday night, after a solid week of rain, I found it again. The appreciation. All the precipitation had left the park lush and mysterious. The evening light was painterly. During a rainstorm I took shelter under a canopy of trees and watched the dogs play in the tall grass.

It was magical.

Suddenly I remembered what you “get” out of being there.