building a life

or so i feel.

in ,

there's this line from the guernsey literary and potato peel pie society that i keep thinking about:


"What did he look like?" I asked, for I wanted to picture the scene. I expected it was a futile request, given that men cannot describe eachother, but Dawsey knew how. "He looked like the German you imagine--tall, blonde hair, blue eyes--except he could feel pain."

sometimes i think, just for today--just for today i will be the woman with the perfectly manicured nail beds who does crossword puzzles to completion and listens to this american life on a regular basis.

just for today i'll be the woman in the three-inch-pumps who woke at seven for her five-mile-run. and who can smile just-so and melt the heart of many-a-man.

just for today i'll be the girl who doesn't need months to warm-up to someone, for whom shyness is not a reality, but something read about in literature or dissected in art-house movie theatres.

who sits down to a meal. by herself--without four years of ghosts trailing just beyond her field of vision.

for whom sadness is a singular event--occurring intermittently at best. who can speak three languages and laughs sans snort. who cuts her grapefruit gracefully and and prepares her meals in advance. who always responds to emails and calls in a prompt fashion. who mails thank-yous the days she's finished writing them. by hand. whose handwriting doesn't deteriorate to scribble. ever.

who knows what day of the week it is when she wakes in the morning. and how much money she has in her bank account--wait, scratch that, who has money in her bank account.

but i'm not. i am not that woman. not today. not tomorrow. probably, not ever.

but today--today i can feel pain. and that's something.



metanoia.

in ,



i believe it was during game two of the alcs championship--you know that five hour, ten minute game?--that my metanoia occurred (how's that for a word?).


i was sitting there watching the game, anxiety plinking (is that a word? oh well, is now) away at my oh-so-many-emotions, when i thought, hold up, stop. the story is already written. the answer has been told. if my boys are meant to win, they will win. no need to worry or stress, just sit back and enjoy the game. feel the experience.

the story is written.

already.

but that doesn't mean my boys got to ease up. they had to fight for the win--fight for their lives--every step of the way.

and win they did.

i've been thinking about this a lot lately. how somewhere out there i'm living a life that's already known. the answers are just in front of me, waiting. no need to worry, just enjoy the experience. but fight, fight through every step, scuffle, double-play.

the thing is... in baseball the answer is simple: score more runs than the other team and you will win. but how does one win in life--what exactly is one fighting for? and because the answer is ambiguous at best, it's hard to tell if you're attempting to re-write the story or just fighting for your life with more resilience and courage than you ever knew possible.

it's mucky. tricky. no clear lines.


more than a fort.

in , ,


I came to visit one night. To make sure I could live here. We had drinks, my friend and I. And talked about life now, a year after school.


And then I took the red-line subway home, to my little pocket on the Upper West Side. I climbed into my too-small bed, in my too-small bedroom—my too small bedroom without a door--and I cried.


I cried for the all the things I imagined I was losing. I cried for failed expectations and the perpetual push away of that line—that demarcation of success.


And then I woke the next morning, washed away exhaustion and disappointment, and set about busying myself with all the tasks a move demands:


Telling the roommate. Letter of notice. Cleaning. Packing. Painting (oh the painting). To take the bed or not? Change of address. Weaning the wardrobe. Trips to Goodwill. Cajoling friends into helping with the actual move.


And all the while I was afraid. You see, I’d lived on the Upper West Side for five years. Two years in a dorm at 66th street, followed by two different apartments at 104th, and finished by my near-year stint at 80th. A forty block radius, in which I conducted my life. A forty block radius in which I attempted to become an adult. And yet here I was hurtling myself a hundred blocks north of my-so-called-home.


It was a product of funds. Of not having enough to live in such a “prime” location. It was capitulation, this move.


And yet I found that as I ticked away all those tedious tasks, I began ticking away other things--things I’ve long talked about but never acted on.


I bought a bike. And went in search of the perfect swimming pool. I found it at 145th and Riverside—I’m going tomorrow for the first time. I began to keep track of expenses and I (wait for it) did my taxes. And this idea of growing up, becoming an adult was suddenly an appealing notion. For the first time in my life (truly, the first time) it seemed thrilling, actually.


And so this move became about more than necessary funds, or the lack thereof. It was not capitulation, but decision. A choice. A change. An opportunity.


I spent the summer after my sophomore year of high school in Manhattan. Five weeks. I took the bus in every morning and walked thirteen blocks south to 27th street. And the city revealed itself to me and I to it. And I fell in love with mutual revelation.


I have spent five years trying to rediscover that love, or to recreate it.


Washington Heights is the most topographically diverse area in all of Manhattan.


It is.


Before I moved up here I would throw this fact around, using it as currency—one of many justifications I employed to convince others that I was in fact excited to make the move uptown. I don’t tell people this anymore, I don’t need to, I don’t need to justify anything. But because we’re all friends, I’ll tell you...two blocks north of me is a park where back in day, good ol’ George Washington set up fort with the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War. Mmmmm…I hate to brag, doesn't that history just turn you on?


And the street I live on is hilly. It bends to kiss the Hudson river. The George Washington Bridge stands guard against the skyline. It is strong and constant. The bakery across the street sells a roll that reminds me of my two week stint in Cuernavaca—we’d walk into a panaderia with two dollars in our pocket and walk out with two brown paper bags of bread—it was a happy time when one survived on bread and milk alone.


I can always find a seat on the A train. And the apartment gets light. And I have a door!


The grocery store on 187th is small and clean and wide with inviting aisles. It carries pumpking flax and ciao bella gelato. I could marry the grocery store! There are no crowds to fight, no throngs to move against. Fairway was always an experiment in tolerance and agility.


I love the relative calm here. The near silence. I love the ubiquity of bikes. Yes, the ubiquity of bikes! What a satisfying statement! And more than anything I love that it feels small and lush. It is a neighborhood. And I have found my Manhattan and mutual revelation is once more mine to unfold.


I loved Australia. The whole experience was divine. And yet there was no better feeling than climbing into a yellow taxi after a 20 hour sojourn, asking the driver to take me home, and for the first time in five years of Manhattan living, believing in the power of that word. Home.


I am home. And life is good.