I don't know what became of you, although I did hear years ago you were somewhere in the Southwest, on your own, child grown, maybe writing, maybe struggling too. But when we met, I was the broken one. Newly divorced, heartbroken, with a daughter to raise, a degree to get, my 20's in the rear-view mirror, my 30's fueled by fear. But that afternoon, moving into my student apartment, I was mostly appalled. The lawn was littered with bodies. Packs of people sprawled in the grass, lounged on a mattress under a tree, walked randomly around holding cups and bottles in a blast of rock n' roll that broke the sound barrier. All I wanted was to slip unnoticed up the stairs and lock the door. I had nothing, was nothing, never made friends anyway. But you intercepted me. You drew me into your star wars diva dream party and asked for my nothing in return. Thank you old friend wherever you are, and may the joy be with you.
(Note to our hard-working editors: maybe it's [impending] old age with its bright past and fading future, but I can't see life as a time line. For me, I think it's always been more like a lake you dive into, go to the bottom, swim around, break through to the top, float around, close your eyes, dive back down and then open your eyes underwater again until you can't stand it anymore and have to surface and breathe.)
Labor Day morning and the New York City streets are almost eerily quiet. I’m on my way to work with cats, and a bit in a rush, so my surroundings seem to blur as I rush down into the subway. The platform is deserted except for an older African American guy playing his heart out on the saxophone – the Beatles song, “And I love her”.
It's so beautiful. And I am suspended in time and space.
And in a millisecond, I feel like I am whooshed through a tunnel of memory so many years long. I’m holding my cat Garbanzo like a baby, and shifting my weight from one foot to another singing this same song as though it was a lullaby for him. “A love like ours, could never die”.
He was a complicated soul, who was so loving with me, but also could bite hard! Yet together in that calm space we were one peaceful being. I loved him so much, and he taught me so many lessons about unconditional love, about being in the moment, about quieting my whole being down so we could meet in that calm space. I’m thanking him and telling him I will always love and remember him.
The sound of the approaching train grabs me to pull me back to the present. Tears blur my vision, but inside I feel a clarity too, feeling the love, and connectedness, and power of that love and connection that will always be there.
My 4-year old son stands between in the space between the couch and the coffee table, the usual Uncrustable breakfast between his hands and resting on his lips, eyes glued to Netflix's "Karate Sheep." Another day he has to stay home from school due to the fever that shows up in the early morning hours, quickly driven away by children's ibuprofen, leaving him with the energy of an animal, but unable to leave his cage. I watch him for a moment, and turn back to my computer, attempting to get some work done before the TV no longer serves as a distraction.
~
It's 2 a.m. and I peel myself out of bed and creep into the nursery to pump breast milk. My son isn't there. He still sleeps in the bassinet next to our bed. I connect myself to the pump and watch "Jersey Shore" or read or stare off into space until the time is up. I collect everything, store the milk, and rinse off all the pieces before slipping back into bed. Just then, my son starts to cry to be fed. His dad is still sound asleep. I'm already "up" so I get the bottle ready. It's 2:45 a.m. I hadn't yet learned to let the baby dictate when I got up to pump and feed him.
~
Attempting to take a meeting. My son tantrums when I can't help with his Kindle Fire game. Meeting is over and I work on the policy for another hour. "Mommy, can I have a smoothie?"
"Yes, give me a minute."
Many minutes later, "Mommy, you forgot."
"Ok, hold on."
"Actually, can I have a popsicle?"
"Yes."
Exactly the number of minutes to it takes to eat a popsicle worth of work later, "Mommy, will you build a house with me?"
"I'm coming now, baby."
~
One day, when I've slept in well past 8 a.m., I'll miss being distracted by my 4-year old son while I attempted to do things I once thought important and reminisce about being exhausted during the day because I stayed up all night wondering at my infant son and rocking him back to sleep.
I don't know what became of you, although I did hear years ago you were somewhere in the Southwest, on your own, child grown, maybe writing, maybe struggling too. But when we met, I was the broken one. Newly divorced, heartbroken, with a daughter to raise, a degree to get, my 20's in the rear-view mirror, my 30's fueled by fear. But that afternoon, moving into my student apartment, I was mostly appalled. The lawn was littered with bodies. Packs of people sprawled in the grass, lounged on a mattress under a tree, walked randomly around holding cups and bottles in a blast of rock n' roll that broke the sound barrier. All I wanted was to slip unnoticed up the stairs and lock the door. I had nothing, was nothing, never made friends anyway. But you intercepted me. You drew me into your star wars diva dream party and asked for my nothing in return. Thank you old friend wherever you are, and may the joy be with you.
(Note to our hard-working editors: maybe it's [impending] old age with its bright past and fading future, but I can't see life as a time line. For me, I think it's always been more like a lake you dive into, go to the bottom, swim around, break through to the top, float around, close your eyes, dive back down and then open your eyes underwater again until you can't stand it anymore and have to surface and breathe.)
Labor Day morning and the New York City streets are almost eerily quiet. I’m on my way to work with cats, and a bit in a rush, so my surroundings seem to blur as I rush down into the subway. The platform is deserted except for an older African American guy playing his heart out on the saxophone – the Beatles song, “And I love her”.
It's so beautiful. And I am suspended in time and space.
And in a millisecond, I feel like I am whooshed through a tunnel of memory so many years long. I’m holding my cat Garbanzo like a baby, and shifting my weight from one foot to another singing this same song as though it was a lullaby for him. “A love like ours, could never die”.
He was a complicated soul, who was so loving with me, but also could bite hard! Yet together in that calm space we were one peaceful being. I loved him so much, and he taught me so many lessons about unconditional love, about being in the moment, about quieting my whole being down so we could meet in that calm space. I’m thanking him and telling him I will always love and remember him.
The sound of the approaching train grabs me to pull me back to the present. Tears blur my vision, but inside I feel a clarity too, feeling the love, and connectedness, and power of that love and connection that will always be there.
My 4-year old son stands between in the space between the couch and the coffee table, the usual Uncrustable breakfast between his hands and resting on his lips, eyes glued to Netflix's "Karate Sheep." Another day he has to stay home from school due to the fever that shows up in the early morning hours, quickly driven away by children's ibuprofen, leaving him with the energy of an animal, but unable to leave his cage. I watch him for a moment, and turn back to my computer, attempting to get some work done before the TV no longer serves as a distraction.
~
It's 2 a.m. and I peel myself out of bed and creep into the nursery to pump breast milk. My son isn't there. He still sleeps in the bassinet next to our bed. I connect myself to the pump and watch "Jersey Shore" or read or stare off into space until the time is up. I collect everything, store the milk, and rinse off all the pieces before slipping back into bed. Just then, my son starts to cry to be fed. His dad is still sound asleep. I'm already "up" so I get the bottle ready. It's 2:45 a.m. I hadn't yet learned to let the baby dictate when I got up to pump and feed him.
~
Attempting to take a meeting. My son tantrums when I can't help with his Kindle Fire game. Meeting is over and I work on the policy for another hour. "Mommy, can I have a smoothie?"
"Yes, give me a minute."
Many minutes later, "Mommy, you forgot."
"Ok, hold on."
"Actually, can I have a popsicle?"
"Yes."
Exactly the number of minutes to it takes to eat a popsicle worth of work later, "Mommy, will you build a house with me?"
"I'm coming now, baby."
~
One day, when I've slept in well past 8 a.m., I'll miss being distracted by my 4-year old son while I attempted to do things I once thought important and reminisce about being exhausted during the day because I stayed up all night wondering at my infant son and rocking him back to sleep.