Notes of gratitude
Notes of gratitude:
endless feelings and sights and discoveries -things I don't want to forget.
climbing ivy on brick, gardens heavy in bloom, sunlight streaming through white curtains, lavender pressed between pages, the endless whir of the fan, the comfort of cold showers on days of searing heat, the feel of a favorite dress on my skin, the creak of hardwood early in the morning, coffee softened by soy milk, sweet mango and sweeter berries, humming hymns as I wash dishes, studying Exodus once more (aren't we all on our way to the Promised Land?), daily rides on the 4 train with a book in hand and Miles or Ella crooning through my headphones, the human choreography which unfolds in Grand Central at rush hour, the cheerful chorus of good mornings upon entering the office, lunch breaks in Tudor City Greens (a tranquil oasis), that one pianist in Bryant Park, fresh market peaches (for oatmeal with coconut, for a caprese salad with mozzarella and basil), gulps of mint lemonade, long strolls in Central Park, phone conversations lasting fifteen blocks, an iced cappuccino in the Albanian cafe down the street, bodegas covered in sunflowers, mid-Summer rainfall, lifting my gaze to the summit of buildings (the sight of them dissapearing in ashen mist), the generosity of neighbors who remember my name, the sound of domino players in the courtyard, preparing for visitors weekend by weekend (banana bread muffins, fresh linen), awaited face-to-face soul talks with Laurianne, celebrating twenty three years, wedding dresses with and for Elise, coffee hunting always, flowers in a mason jar kept on the windowsill (gifted to me by my colleagues on my birthday: is there a thing more precious to feel welcomed and known?), team picnics on Governor's Island, a warm breeze, a BLT bagel at Black Seed, the flicker of a candle smelling of hydrangeas like my mama, slow mornings come Saturday, buttermilk pancakes covered in syrup and bluberries, finding inspiration in books, carving out the time to write, snail mail from loved ones, a church that feels like home, (prayed-for) text messages like "want to come over for dinner next week?", new friends (the profound blessing it is to write that), butter coffee with Echo, grannies peering out of open windows, the sound of a youth group's laughter, a walk in the Bronx with Leonard Cohen, a walk through Greenwich village with Peter, Paul & Mary, breezing through Stranger Things, making my first roast dinner, falling asleep to the pidder padder of rain and the rumbling of thunder, a mental note: watch every Meg Ryan movie possible, filling my calendar and dreaming of the Fall (a jazz show, that coffee shop on Mulberry, and an afternoon at the Whitney, too), yellow taxis everywhere, praying prayers of thankfulness at every step, realizing that these are the days I make New York my home - these are the days I live my way into my childhood prayer.
endless feelings and sights and discoveries -things I don't want to forget.
climbing ivy on brick, gardens heavy in bloom, sunlight streaming through white curtains, lavender pressed between pages, the endless whir of the fan, the comfort of cold showers on days of searing heat, the feel of a favorite dress on my skin, the creak of hardwood early in the morning, coffee softened by soy milk, sweet mango and sweeter berries, humming hymns as I wash dishes, studying Exodus once more (aren't we all on our way to the Promised Land?), daily rides on the 4 train with a book in hand and Miles or Ella crooning through my headphones, the human choreography which unfolds in Grand Central at rush hour, the cheerful chorus of good mornings upon entering the office, lunch breaks in Tudor City Greens (a tranquil oasis), that one pianist in Bryant Park, fresh market peaches (for oatmeal with coconut, for a caprese salad with mozzarella and basil), gulps of mint lemonade, long strolls in Central Park, phone conversations lasting fifteen blocks, an iced cappuccino in the Albanian cafe down the street, bodegas covered in sunflowers, mid-Summer rainfall, lifting my gaze to the summit of buildings (the sight of them dissapearing in ashen mist), the generosity of neighbors who remember my name, the sound of domino players in the courtyard, preparing for visitors weekend by weekend (banana bread muffins, fresh linen), awaited face-to-face soul talks with Laurianne, celebrating twenty three years, wedding dresses with and for Elise, coffee hunting always, flowers in a mason jar kept on the windowsill (gifted to me by my colleagues on my birthday: is there a thing more precious to feel welcomed and known?), team picnics on Governor's Island, a warm breeze, a BLT bagel at Black Seed, the flicker of a candle smelling of hydrangeas like my mama, slow mornings come Saturday, buttermilk pancakes covered in syrup and bluberries, finding inspiration in books, carving out the time to write, snail mail from loved ones, a church that feels like home, (prayed-for) text messages like "want to come over for dinner next week?", new friends (the profound blessing it is to write that), butter coffee with Echo, grannies peering out of open windows, the sound of a youth group's laughter, a walk in the Bronx with Leonard Cohen, a walk through Greenwich village with Peter, Paul & Mary, breezing through Stranger Things, making my first roast dinner, falling asleep to the pidder padder of rain and the rumbling of thunder, a mental note: watch every Meg Ryan movie possible, filling my calendar and dreaming of the Fall (a jazz show, that coffee shop on Mulberry, and an afternoon at the Whitney, too), yellow taxis everywhere, praying prayers of thankfulness at every step, realizing that these are the days I make New York my home - these are the days I live my way into my childhood prayer.
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