Tides, Breath, In and Out

And so summer turns to fall with a taste of winter, and here I am again. The sounds are the same but the feelings are different, and I struggle with these words on my page. They're asking for my justifications. They're asking for my self. I'm not sure how to answer.

Maybe I will tell them of my dreams of dancing, of feet barefoot on sand, of flying. I'll describe the taste of passion, its saltwater sweetness, and how it trickles before it falls. I'll tell them of yearning, of mornings spent with sunrises and of evenings with sleepless dreams. I'll smile. They'll laugh. We'll live in our world of pretendings.

I want it too much.

That makes things dangerous.

That means it's going to hurt.

I've been teaching myself to face reality, but it is so easy to drift into dreams, into worlds of limitless possibilities and unindentured hope. I think you understand.

Tonight I miss the ocean. I want to go back home.

A Man, A Plan, A Canal Panama

There’s a pizzeria on the corner of Prinsengracht and Rozengracht with Chagall windows and a man who calls me gorgeous when he touches my arm and says goodnight. I wonder what else he’d say to me, a New York girl with a last name of flowers, who ordered pasta and a Long Island iced tea, without the Long Island, because that would say too much. 

I wonder what he’d tell himself, how much he’d understand, how much I’d let him know.

And now with an ocean between us and my view of the Manhattan skyline, I find myself falling back into apathy.

But with a hint of want.

Dangerous–

            like looking in mirrors when you know your perception’s cracked.

And I do.

I’m past the dock and across the canal and the reflection is distorted so it must be okay. The streets are clean until they’re filled. With people. And then with their remains. Reminders that life has been lived. Is being lived.

I want to live. 

Rest and Repose

The Sabbath day is approaching. In a couple of hours, the sun will bid farewell. The couples will walk to shul and split at the mehitza, and the Friedmans and the Carlebachs will be heard again. The streets will speak in Yeshivish and the shabbat shaloms will sound.

New York City takes a breath and smiles.

Even she can learn repose.

There is a scent in the air that seems to promise stillness. There is a scent that fills her soul with hope.

Eyelids flutter.

The musicians are painting murals as the artists stop and stare. Red. Silver. She curls into herself and uncovers color. She thinks they'll understand.

Hand takes hand and she is no longer falling. She feels worthy of being saved.

The Queen will soon reveal her presence. I bow low and accept her prayer.

Cherry Trees

Sometimes, March comes in like a lamb. You sleep, he wakes, and February returns to slumber. It's all in the subtleties- in the scent of new breeze and whisper of spring approaching, in the defrosting of crocuses as they prepare to bloom. It's in the way the men have switched from fleece to cotton and in the gentle brush of hair against cheek.

I close my eyes and breathe tranquility. I need this moment to relearn Earth's spin.

Mahar

With enough power, you can defy gravity. With enough speed, you can escape its grasp. For a weekend, you can disappear into a world of faith and security and open your eyes to life anew. You can taste the ruach and the koach, the spirit and the strength, and you can hold hands with seventy others and fill a room with sanctity.

We are not the leaders of tomorrow. We are the leaders of today.

Peopling

The year is 1886 and great-great-grandpa Rubin is on his sixteenth day of exhaustion. The conditions are steerage and the promise is America and he is alone, but not. He is a month too soon for Lady Liberty's welcome, but somehow, he still sees Her flame. He breathes in the New York City soot and smiles.

Flicker.

Boot heels meet cobblestone and he wonders how much life one can grasp in the palm of a hand.

Flicker.

He strokes Martha's face on the proof of his promise. He knows he can achieve.

Fade.

The year is 2011 and she finds herself revisiting. Her thoughts toss and tumble with the nights she cannot sleep. She doesn't call it loneliness, but she feels it all the same. Cars chatter outside her window. The coffee mug has been filled. Another evening. Another morning. A new day.

Flicker.

The sun is shining, but the season is still cold.

Flicker.

The medication stopped working days ago. She lies awake and dreams.

Flicker.

Her image of self is wavering. She borders on transparent. She knows not what to do.

Fade.

Realization

It hits you in the strangest of moments, that scent of something lost. It's 3 am and the pictures are scattered across her bed again. If you ask her, she'll tell the truth this time. Things are not okay.

Snow has been cleared from most of the parking garage. The lampposts are always shining. Music is playing through computer speakers. For tonight, silence is too loud. She's not ready for that. She's not ready for that yet.

She's not ready to be alone.

When she closes her eyes, she remembers the smell of latkes that always seemed to linger and the nights she shared her bed. She remembers bagel breakfasts and eight hour car rides. She remembers party hats and streamers and acting out Purim spiels. She remembers tickling and laughter and arms wrapped around her.

She's feeling naked now. She needs someone to hold.

She wishes she had never let go.

Renewal and Rabbit Holes

When you're standing across from a man for ten minutes, he begins to look familiar. You wonder if you've seen him before or if a shared subway ride can really be that intimate. You close your eyes to remember his face- laugh lines, glasses, winter cap covering graying hair. You wonder what he's scribbling in his notebook, leather-bound, and what he thinks of your bed-headed, Starbucks-sipping self. The 1 pulls into Times Square. You exit. He doesn't look up.

El Diario is sitting across from The New York Times and next to a Chinese paper I will probably never understand. For a moment, three worlds align. I stand and bear witness. It's empowering in a way.

Is it possible to be exhausted yet refreshed?

Once again, I find myself with questions. Once again, the reading is responsive, and my words have been scripted, and I know what I am saying, but I do not understand. I am searching for reasons, uncovering wood and stone, rifling through memory, reading facts on Snapple caps.

The ground upon which we stand is wrought with faults.

Life is fragile.

I lean into the wind.

Life is fragile.

From this moment forward, I vow to make mine count.

Pomegranate Seeds

There is so much life that I am living. There are meetings and concerts and classes and moments and the world keeps turning and the smiles keep fleeting and flitting as I New York City step around you. I love the feel of excitement and the way it lingers in the air. I love the taste of promise and the grinding of gears as another puzzle piece is laid in its place. A picture is slowly evolving. I love watching it unfurl.

The year is 2011, and while its eve brought seven days of grief, I have seen another morning. Life is in full force now and it is exhilarating. Day to day is not a monotony for each sunrise brings another thrill.

I missed the childhood wonder, but it's so easy to fall back into it again.

Each sunset has its own brilliancy and each snowflake its special flare. Each passerby has her own story to share and I want nothing more than to listen.

I've started making lists again, but this time, I think it's different. This time, I'm not afraid to breathe.