I sat in church shivering, my green coat draped over my shoulders.
There wasn't enough oil to heat the church. So we sat there, shaking a little, cold, but lit by that nameless thing that tethers one to the pew, that makes one kneel before the alter in awe, and begs thanks for how small we feel when under the nave of the church.
The mass was fast--the father needing to get to the next service at the parish's sister church. But in the middle of the accelerated unfolding of ritual the priest gave a homily on global warming--how even if the science is soft, it is an experiential thing and at this point the experience of it cannot be denied, and how we as people who love God--who love our fellow man--must also love the earth, must love this gift of a place that was never ours to keep.
"I can never get over when you're on the beach how beautiful the sand looks and the water washes it away and it straightens it up and the trees and the grass all look great. I think having land and not ruining it is the most beautiful art that anybody could ever want to own."
I love that quote.
I love it most especially because it was Andy Warhol who said it. Bet you didn't expect that? I know, it gives it a punch.
When I returned to Brooklyn after the storm I tried to figure out if the winds and rain had accelerated the loss of leaves in such a way that that's what my eye was registering, or if we'd really lost so many trees.
The cutout of green against sky transformed.
There were places where the loss was obvious--the body of the majestic thing now splayed across a street. Desperate roots still clinging to sidewalk.
The trees sing a song in New York. And this week there's less music. Small deaths.
Against the loss of human life, the loss of a tree is a small thing, we all know this. And yet, this week, it has been there at the unearthed trunks and exposed rings of oaks and elms that people have gathered with offerings of small and silent questions: How long was this tree here? How much did it see? And why did it fall--why this one and not that one?
The mantles of God multitudinous. The places in which we we feel our own size and worth extending far beyond pews and naves.
Uncategorized
the best thing i saw yesterday:
Yesterday I walked from Carroll Gardens to midtown Manhattan. It took about 2 1/2 hours. I'm going to do it once more today and then spend the night with a friend in Queens where the F train is in service. You can imagine I saw quite a bit on my sojourn. Walking through a powerless (and relatively empty) lower Manhattan was certainly a sight. But nothing compared to this--this thing that I'm quite certain had nothing to do with the hurricane or its effect. Outside of University Hospital many of the patients lined the sidewalk, candy on their laps, and children paraded past, gathering goodies from each. What a gift. God, what a gift--for the children, for the patients, for the parents, for me watching from the other side of the street. What lessons learned there in that parade of small children.
It was the loveliest thing I've seen in a good long while. It'll be an image I carry forward for years. A Halloween with more meaning. More. More life. More generosity. The kind of more one is always searching for--right there on Henry Street.
My New York// Halloween is a thing in this neck of the woods + the aftermath of Sandy
Still en-route.
I've lived in Brooklyn for five months now.
When I counted out the time on my fingers tonight I found that number--five months--absolutely startling. I blinked and June became July became November.
I anticipated this move for such a long--the move out of Manhattan, the move into a space of my own own, the move away from what was known and done.
And here I am and it's been five months.
And I just blinked.
I knew this move wouldn't change my life--at least not in that bedrock-shifting-sort-of-way that one always secretly hopes for. I knew that happiness in a place wouldn't necessarily make for a happier life--it would help, surely, but happiness is more than a place.
When I first moved everyone asked how it was. And I would bow my head and take a breath and say, I'm so in love with it.
But it hasn't been easy. And because this place feels so right and so good it has served to magnify and highlight other areas of my life that are all-of-the-sudden-just-not-good-enough.
Does that make sense? The bedrock didn't shift in any life altering way, it simply settled. And I found myself on solid ground and equal footing and suddenly things that had been fine no longer were.
You know when you're in the presence of someone you're desperately in love with and how for the first ten minutes your face is flushed and you can't believe the tumble of your stomach, but once you sit with them long enough you're encompassed by such a profound sense of comfort and safety and you feel more yourself than ever before? That's sort of how I felt--how I feel--in this little patch of Brooklyn, as though I've found the place in which I'm totally swaddled and cared for.
But I'm so overwhelmed by the largeness of this feeling that I am without words for it. And few things frustrate me more. When will language catch up? When will there be enough words to say what needs to be said?
And because this one section of the puzzle feels so assembled I'm desperate to get the rest sorted out. And so I'm constantly struggling just to catch up with myself. This, as it turns out, is not a helpful feeling.
I was having a rough day about a week ago and a few things conspired to make me take the long walk from DUMBO to Carroll Gardens. It was late and the air was finally cool with October on its back and as I walked I thought, so I'm not there yet. I'm still en route. I'm not totally well and I don't have everything figured out and there's still so much to do.
And I have to tell you, few thoughts have been more helpful than that notion--not there yet.
It was just a rephrasing in my mind--a move from feeling like I'd arrived on the side of well and was constantly then failing to live up to that versus still just plodding. And still-just-plodding makes life easier to live. Still-just-plodding gives me enough space to forgive myself for my many failings and to love this new neighborhood for exactly what it is--even if I don't always have the words for that love and even if it sometimes feels too-right in the shadow of all else that's yet to be decided.
On a separate note: I spent the hurricane with Natalie. I wasn't in an evacuation zone here in Brooklyn and didn't feel at all unsafe in my apartment, but I knew that if I the whole of the city was going to be holed up for a few days, it'd be good to do it with a friend. We are both so grateful that in her midtown apartment we were completely safe--with power and water at all times. When I finally returned home last night (via cab) it was a very eerie thing to drive through a completely powerless downtown Manhattan (it looked a bit like a ghost town). I know there are people out there saying that New York and New Jersey overreacted in anticipation of this storm, but they didn't. Some of the flooding was extraordinary and I'm so grateful to our leaders for taking charge in the way that they did. My heart is full this morning thinking of all the people not as fortunate as Natalie and myself. And I think all New Yorkers are a bit overwhelmed today as we face the reality of the cleanup and of navigating a city that, as of now, has an extremely limited transit system.
weathering sandy.
i've got miss natalie to keep me company. we went out this morning and were able to snag more water and some votive candles (i was shocked the corner store still had them). not sure how this will all play out, but i'm praying for the best and hoping life returns to normal as quickly as possible.