February Night Air

My voicemail had gone unanswered. Two emails without responses. It was a quick question: "Will you be there on Tuesday? I have a couple questions about the process. And it would be nice to see a friendly face." Friendly used as an understatement. The answer was yes or no; it wasn't an invitation or obligation. He would be there or he wouldn't. I just wanted to know. Not a big deal. I sent him a sarcastic email mid-weekend intended to make him roll his eyes at my logic. It, too, went unanswered.

There were dinner plans he missed and a late entrance and an engaged conversation in the hallway that left me no space to ask and no hello and finished with a quick exit. An oh-shit lightbulb-moment must have gone off when he walked out of the building - he replied to my mid-weekend sarcastic email as soon as he got out of the car. Friendly and funny, of course. But it was too late and the wrong email, buddy. This time I didn't reply.

I went on Tuesday. Found my way, shook some hands, sat down among the chairs. I hoped he wasn't there. I was fuming and didn't want to hide it and didn't want to let it out. Ten minutes in, he appeared in the doorway, surveying the room. Spotted. He sat down beside me and draped his arm over the back of my chair. He leaned over to whisper hello, and I felt the eyes of the entire room on us.

I put on my best behavior. Smiled when he introduced me, laughed at his jokes, drank the glass of water he put in my hand. No one knew but him. The straightness of my back, the way I wouldn't let my eyes meet his, how I left when everyone else did.

The next evening, I passed him without saying anything on the way to the bathroom. It wasn't the time or the place, and I could not figure out how rationally or irrationally angry I was. When I walked out of the bathroom, he was standing there waiting for me. "How are you doing?" he wanted to know. "Fine," I replied, trying to sound fine. He waited for my eyes to meet his. They did. "Why are you angry with me?" It was the most direct thing he had ever said to me about us. I didn't know how to respond.

"It's just been a long day."
"Good long or bad long?" He wasn't sure where I was going with that and neither was I.
"Just long."

He held my eyes. We had about thirty second before our break was over and we had to be back. "I am angry with you." It flew out and landed between us. I didn't know what to do with it. He picked it up gently, keeping his eyes on mine. "Do you want to tell me why you're angry?" Not then I didn't. Not in that hallway under those lights in less than thirty seconds. I shook my head no. It was anything but graceful. "I trust you'll let me know when you're ready, right?" I nodded my head yes. He waited until I broke eye contact and walked towards the door before he moved at all.

When our night finally ended, he walked over to where I stood with my friends and asked if he could walk me to my car. I said I still had to collect my things and my friends said no he could not and he said he would come with me. I nodded.

We walked in silence as I gathered up my things. Quiet, comfortable silence. The kind of silence that didn't make me feel crazy or irrational. The kind of silence we usually had when we weren't talking about big dreams or bickering like middle school boys and girls. The lights were still florescent and harsh but I felt a bit softer.

"We're friends. And I know I have high expectations, but." I started awkwardly and ended awkwardly, but somewhere in the middle I told him that I was upset he had blown me off so much in the week prior. "We're a bit odd," I told him in almost those exact words, "and it gets tough sometimes." He listened intently, agreed whole-heartedly, and apologized sincerely. Although I expected nothing less, it gave me the security the past couple of weeks had stolen.

He walked me to my car in the cold February night air. The stars so clear above and I bounced down the sidewalk with the good news I could finally tell him. When we got to my car, he pulled me towards him and wrapped me up in a hug.  We stood there together just long enough, in the cold, February night air.

******

In the Februarys that have past since then, and since he disappeared quickly and slowly from my life, I often forget about that night. The confusion, hurt, anger, adrenaline. To buzz from something intangible. To react to something that doesn't have a name. It wasn't the unreturned phone call. It wasn't the email that went without reply. It was the yes and the no all rolled up into one. It was the hallway brush-off and the ability to make my eyes meet his. All rolled up into one. I didn't know how to unravel it, so I unraveled instead.

To know to expect more but to not get it. To never know how much you'll get. Friends or formality. Depending on, depending on. To know you couldn't feel this way alone. And yet, it appears you are.

It's him waiting for me outside the bathroom door that I remember now. The direct question, the insistence on walking me to my car, the apology, the validation. It's the cold, February night air and the bright stars that I remember now. It's the long hug on the street corner in the dark.

Those things were there, and tonight, they are what I remember.

These Past Few Days...

I write or I don't write. Save to draft, hit delete. It's worthy, it's not worthy, it just doesn't say... anything. I have too much to say.

The subway is crowded or empty. The backpack heavy on my shoulders or sprawled out across the seat next to me. I watch the skyline bold across the night sky and the flag flying high above the Brooklyn Bridge each night. I think about getting off at the next stop and walking the bridge back to Manhattan - to feel the cool night air and dance in the skyscraper lights and sing along to the traffic sirens. Or I cross the river with my head against the metal wall, eyes closed, too tired to count the stops before mine.

Conversations in a language I learned long ago and I'm rusty but the words still arrive. Professionalism and passion finally married; this could be the honeymoon, six years later. Or the words we've cultivate since childhood, a conversation that takes up where we left off and ends somewhere in the middle - waiting for us patiently until next time. So familiar, so new.

I think I might never leave. And when I do, even for a night or two, I'll miss this city more than I've missed any place. But the shoebox bedroom is hot without air-conditioning and isolating without internet. Without roommates who say hello and how was your day? Or much of anything. I wake up a few hours past midnight in a sweat to a silent fan - the power out and all I want to do is leave.

So I leave. Fifteen minutes after my eyes meet the sun rays and the fan still silent, I throw my things into a bag and head out the door, un-showered because it doesn't matter where I am going. Home. Quaint and quiet New England with cool nights and warm days, the leaves just beginning to turn. Puppy kisses and home cooked meals, morning walks with hot coffee and evenings in sweatpants. It's easy to leave and it's easy to return.

For the first time, it is easy to leave and it is easy to return.

The city's ten degrees warmer and seventy times brighter and it's home. I left home and I arrived home. The city skyline over the East River and the flag above the Brooklyn Bridge. I crawl into bed after midnight. Instinctively wrap my arm around the empty space next to me and wait for it to move up and down with rhythmic breathing. Empty doesn't move, of course. But I fall asleep in my tiny bed grateful that I am enough to fill it. Grateful that I am enough to fill my life.

It is this and it is that and it's all so much more.

On The Eleven Year Anniversary

I posted this last year, on the ten year anniversary of 9/11. It's about not having the words and it's about the healing powers of art, in some ways, the small ways. In the big ways, it's about the hearts of people. It's about strength and compassion. And those are the same few, sparse words I can offer today. But maybe they're the most important words. 

-----------------------------------

On The Ten Year Anniversary

I have been thinking about what to say on this day since September 11, 2002. I woke up that morning in the dorm room shared with the same friend I made on September 11, 2001 and sat in front of my laptop. I wanted to put up an AIM away message and didn't know what to write. Didn't know how to commemorate the one year anniversary in words. There weren't enough words or there were too many. I settled for "Give someone an extra hug today." I thought about the ten year anniversary (very honestly, I did) and wondered if I would find the words by then.

I still don't have the words. 

(I wonder if any of us do. John Stewart comes the closest, I think.)

I remember where I was that morning. I remember the feel of the metal chair under me as I watched. I remember the fear. (It was the second week of my first year of college. It was fear on top of fear.) But what I remember the most, what I feel the most, is what transpired after that morning. 

The curve of her hat brim as she sat afternoon after afternoon in the dorm lounge watching CNN. When she returned home for October break, her skyline would look entirely different. So quiet, but she told me that. She sat on that ugly, uncomfortable green couch that the boys floor would eventually steal, while the red-head, who lived one door down, perched on the arm rest. Red hair pulled back in a single elastic, with a few pieces falling out, and comfy black stretch pants, she would debate the commentators and curse out national policy. So loud, but she dripped silent tears with us also. These two, they made up most of my heart and soul those next four years. Quiet and loud, curved hat brims and wispy red-hair. The beginning of unconditional love, that's what I remember. That's what I remember the most. 

I remember classes canceled and the few hundred of us who made our way down to the quad to hold hands in a circle. I remember the stifled sobs and the terrified faces, but I what I remember more is feeling safe and cared for among faces I had never seen before. When classes resumed, we returned uncertain and unsteady. My professor brought us up to the performing arts gym where she put on quiet music for us to move to, to color to, to sit silently to. We didn't utter a single word the entire hour but left class in awe of each other, inspired by strength and compassion. 

That's what I remember. And someday, when I find the words, those are the stories I'll tell. Until I do, I'll just leave you with this: 

{photos are mine from around 2002 in lower manhattan. the ceramic pieces were made by people from across the US}

Around the Next Corner

I keep thinking about the young woman I was in college.

It's the fall weather; the late-August orientation days; the words I sit with everyday now (and again) like theory, agency, question, and socioeconomic. It's living in New York state again. It's something even more.

It's the faith, the deep seated knowledge, that this will be home. That I will find my people. That there will be hours, days, weeks, of which I will love every, single minute. That this is right. This is exactly where I am supposed to be. (It comes again, it arrives again, years and years later, expected and unexpected, and welcomed with a full heart, a whoop of celebration.)

I missed the city while I was Connecticut this past weekend. I fell asleep my first night "home" happy to be in Connecticut and happy to miss New York. It has been years and years since I held the happy and the missing on a first night in Connecticut.

I keep thinking about the young woman I was in college. On the brink. Always ready to take the leap of faith. And how many times that young woman leapt and how many times she landed on both feet. Or even better, how many times she was caught.

She knew and she didn't know, in the same moment, in the same breath. The knowing and the not knowing mixed together to create some of the best. Always the best, even after all this time.

She's around here somewhere, that woman. With her knowing and her not knowing and her leaping right into the best. I keep thinking about her, because I'm fairly certain she is just around the next corner.




[Photo from September 2002 (hard to believe it has believe it has been ten years) with one of the best, who will remain faceless for now in the name of privacy. Please note the disposable camera in my hand, ha.]