i could write about it all
There are so many vignettes of New York which I have meant to write about here, I really did. But life writes itself and time slips away and not all moments can be brought to the blogosphere. If I had the time, though, I sense I could write (and write) about it all.
I could write about Labour Day weekend when Laurianne, Heloise and Eliane came for a visit (and we explored every corner -from Rosemary's for pasta by candlelight to Root & Bone for a fried chicken and waffles brunch, Greenpoint in Brooklyn and crossing the bridge under a watercolor sunset, picking salted caramel apple and lavender honey and oat chocolate ganache pie slices at Four & Twenty Blackbirds, eating said slices in Prospect Park, exploring the West Village by foot, listening to live music in Washington Square and poking around its flea market in piping Summer heat, and cooling off with Boba Guys bubble tea -the very best one in town, and spending our last night perched on a stoop with slices of Scarr's pizza on the Lower East Side). I could write about Katie's visit, too, and how we caught up all evening in Tompkins Square, got ice cream scoops in the East Village and bagels & latkes at Barney Greengrass, gazed at the homes on the Upper West Side, ordered Chinese takeout and watches movies in my living room, talked about heaven on the Brooklyn pier and then sought white wine and a Margherita at Juliana's.
I could write about that weekend in August when I went to the New York City Ballet with Auntie Debbie and was utterly charmed by Balanchine -and how I took a deep exhale on the days that followed, during a weekend escape to the woods and oceanside of Connecticut. I could write about the joy of calling Adeline my roommate (the intricacies of God in leading my friend in Montréal to find our apartment online, of all places!) and dates at the vessel, the Whitney for a veritable feast of Pollock and Warhol and Hopper and O'Keefe, a walk around Park Slope, Levain Bakery's chocolate chip, Dinosaur BBQ for sweet tea and creamy coleslaw and biscuits and crispy chicken. I could write about the sun-kissed Sunday I took a train ride and met the ocean at Rockaway Beach, getting my fill of warm sand and foamy waves and fish & chips. I could write about lunch at Little Collins with an Anne Lamott book and the pistachio quadrati at Eataly. I could write about getting my library card and how characteristically un-touristy that felt. I could write about watching the green of Summer turn to the rust of Fall, and how I fell in love with New York City in a whole new way. I could write about the day the rain poured and poured and I decided nothing sounded better than exploring the Morgan Library and its glorious collection of manuscripts and hardcovers. I could write about Cafe Sabarsky at Neue Gallery and realizing how very much I love Gustav Klimt. I could write about stimulating work at the United Nations General Assembly -meeting diplomats and heads of state and straddled equal portions of awe and disillusionment about my field. I could write about days spent in Central Park, at the New York Public Library, at museums and along the Hudson.
I could write about a morning at Tompkins Square bagels with cousin Meghan (on a layover in the city), and sandwiches filled with generous salmon and cream cheese -just the way I like it. I could write about the velvety latte at Double Dutch, or the Israeli coffee shop a few blocks over. I could write about the way my heart thrilled when walking around the Cloisters -perhaps my most favorite part of Manhattan of all -its Medieval art beckoning me to commune with God. I could write about my family driving down for Canadian Thanksgiving -the familiar joys like Mom's turkey dinner, making pumpkin cookies, a run with Lau along New England estates, a thrift store hunt resulting in black jeans, a trench, a Tiffany lamp and a round mirror with a carved frame. And I could write about that one Sunday brunch at the Butcher's Daughter with all three of them-with eggs and pancakes and berries and bee pollen juice and bottomless coffee, too.
I could write about my mom's visit in November- how she spent her days hearing me pour out my heart, following me around my favorite parts of the city, and making sure my cupboards were well stocked with the makings of squash soup and chili. I could write about the two of us going to Oklahoma on Broadway, 19 Cleveland for hummus and falafel, Plowshares for a cup of joe. I could write about a day spent walking northward and across Central Park (stopping to listen to the accordionist at Bethesda fountain), watching the Marathon runners on 2nd avenue (mom teared up- bless her tender heart), and Babbalucci's for the best dinner of the season. I could write about her afternoon tea birthday celebrations at Tea & Sympathy, as we gawked at the wonderfully British nature of it all, the flowered teacup and saucer set, and the tiered tray brimming with the loveliest teatime treats. I could write about my first American Thanksgiving, around the table in Connecticut, a tale of football games, pumpkin pie and walks in piney woods.
I could write about finding books at The Strand and falling in love with Fort Greene as Fall turned to Winter. I could write about the first dust of snow in the Park -how I placed the joyous sight in the attic of my mind, to re-discover on a sad day. I could write about watching the city dress herself for Christmas, and how I stood in wonder of dazzling lights on office buildings and fir forests lofted on bustling avenues. I could write about my colleagues, decorating my desk from season to season. I could write about reading poetry on the 4 in the mornings. I could write about the youth in my living room, evening chats with roommates, brewing weekend plans with friends. I could write about counting down the days to the end of it -which has now come and gone -and how exciting-but-terrifying, good-but-heartbreaking that was.
I could write about the ways this season of my life turned out to be a lifetime, in some mysterious and beautiful way.
I could write about a million little things, I really could.
But I recognize a lot of these memories might be best left unwritten. I've gathered them, one by one, and placed them in a delicate posy kept in the quiet spaces of my heart.
Some memories, I am sure, will end up being shared over piles of dusty pictures, face to face, when a conversation invites it.
Many more will simply wait until a smell or sight brings them to surface, allowing me to live precious moments all over again.
Other memories, I reckon, might slip my mind. And there's beauty in that, too. There is beauty in the sequence of embodied instants that, however forgettable, brought profound or simple joy to you then and there -and that, ultimately, take part in the making of your life.
Not everything needs to be documented to count. I desperately want to live by this principle.
So, for now, I want to learn to embrace the new chapter of my life commencing. To do so, I ought to lull the ever-continuing writing about the six months I spent in my city of dreams-and truly savor the present. It is not New York, but it is good in another million ways.
And I want to pay attention to it all.
I could write about Labour Day weekend when Laurianne, Heloise and Eliane came for a visit (and we explored every corner -from Rosemary's for pasta by candlelight to Root & Bone for a fried chicken and waffles brunch, Greenpoint in Brooklyn and crossing the bridge under a watercolor sunset, picking salted caramel apple and lavender honey and oat chocolate ganache pie slices at Four & Twenty Blackbirds, eating said slices in Prospect Park, exploring the West Village by foot, listening to live music in Washington Square and poking around its flea market in piping Summer heat, and cooling off with Boba Guys bubble tea -the very best one in town, and spending our last night perched on a stoop with slices of Scarr's pizza on the Lower East Side). I could write about Katie's visit, too, and how we caught up all evening in Tompkins Square, got ice cream scoops in the East Village and bagels & latkes at Barney Greengrass, gazed at the homes on the Upper West Side, ordered Chinese takeout and watches movies in my living room, talked about heaven on the Brooklyn pier and then sought white wine and a Margherita at Juliana's.
I could write about that weekend in August when I went to the New York City Ballet with Auntie Debbie and was utterly charmed by Balanchine -and how I took a deep exhale on the days that followed, during a weekend escape to the woods and oceanside of Connecticut. I could write about the joy of calling Adeline my roommate (the intricacies of God in leading my friend in Montréal to find our apartment online, of all places!) and dates at the vessel, the Whitney for a veritable feast of Pollock and Warhol and Hopper and O'Keefe, a walk around Park Slope, Levain Bakery's chocolate chip, Dinosaur BBQ for sweet tea and creamy coleslaw and biscuits and crispy chicken. I could write about the sun-kissed Sunday I took a train ride and met the ocean at Rockaway Beach, getting my fill of warm sand and foamy waves and fish & chips. I could write about lunch at Little Collins with an Anne Lamott book and the pistachio quadrati at Eataly. I could write about getting my library card and how characteristically un-touristy that felt. I could write about watching the green of Summer turn to the rust of Fall, and how I fell in love with New York City in a whole new way. I could write about the day the rain poured and poured and I decided nothing sounded better than exploring the Morgan Library and its glorious collection of manuscripts and hardcovers. I could write about Cafe Sabarsky at Neue Gallery and realizing how very much I love Gustav Klimt. I could write about stimulating work at the United Nations General Assembly -meeting diplomats and heads of state and straddled equal portions of awe and disillusionment about my field. I could write about days spent in Central Park, at the New York Public Library, at museums and along the Hudson.
I could write about a morning at Tompkins Square bagels with cousin Meghan (on a layover in the city), and sandwiches filled with generous salmon and cream cheese -just the way I like it. I could write about the velvety latte at Double Dutch, or the Israeli coffee shop a few blocks over. I could write about the way my heart thrilled when walking around the Cloisters -perhaps my most favorite part of Manhattan of all -its Medieval art beckoning me to commune with God. I could write about my family driving down for Canadian Thanksgiving -the familiar joys like Mom's turkey dinner, making pumpkin cookies, a run with Lau along New England estates, a thrift store hunt resulting in black jeans, a trench, a Tiffany lamp and a round mirror with a carved frame. And I could write about that one Sunday brunch at the Butcher's Daughter with all three of them-with eggs and pancakes and berries and bee pollen juice and bottomless coffee, too.
I could write about my mom's visit in November- how she spent her days hearing me pour out my heart, following me around my favorite parts of the city, and making sure my cupboards were well stocked with the makings of squash soup and chili. I could write about the two of us going to Oklahoma on Broadway, 19 Cleveland for hummus and falafel, Plowshares for a cup of joe. I could write about a day spent walking northward and across Central Park (stopping to listen to the accordionist at Bethesda fountain), watching the Marathon runners on 2nd avenue (mom teared up- bless her tender heart), and Babbalucci's for the best dinner of the season. I could write about her afternoon tea birthday celebrations at Tea & Sympathy, as we gawked at the wonderfully British nature of it all, the flowered teacup and saucer set, and the tiered tray brimming with the loveliest teatime treats. I could write about my first American Thanksgiving, around the table in Connecticut, a tale of football games, pumpkin pie and walks in piney woods.
I could write about finding books at The Strand and falling in love with Fort Greene as Fall turned to Winter. I could write about the first dust of snow in the Park -how I placed the joyous sight in the attic of my mind, to re-discover on a sad day. I could write about watching the city dress herself for Christmas, and how I stood in wonder of dazzling lights on office buildings and fir forests lofted on bustling avenues. I could write about my colleagues, decorating my desk from season to season. I could write about reading poetry on the 4 in the mornings. I could write about the youth in my living room, evening chats with roommates, brewing weekend plans with friends. I could write about counting down the days to the end of it -which has now come and gone -and how exciting-but-terrifying, good-but-heartbreaking that was.
I could write about the ways this season of my life turned out to be a lifetime, in some mysterious and beautiful way.
I could write about a million little things, I really could.
But I recognize a lot of these memories might be best left unwritten. I've gathered them, one by one, and placed them in a delicate posy kept in the quiet spaces of my heart.
Some memories, I am sure, will end up being shared over piles of dusty pictures, face to face, when a conversation invites it.
Many more will simply wait until a smell or sight brings them to surface, allowing me to live precious moments all over again.
Other memories, I reckon, might slip my mind. And there's beauty in that, too. There is beauty in the sequence of embodied instants that, however forgettable, brought profound or simple joy to you then and there -and that, ultimately, take part in the making of your life.
Not everything needs to be documented to count. I desperately want to live by this principle.
So, for now, I want to learn to embrace the new chapter of my life commencing. To do so, I ought to lull the ever-continuing writing about the six months I spent in my city of dreams-and truly savor the present. It is not New York, but it is good in another million ways.
And I want to pay attention to it all.
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