New York. 7.24.13
Good lord. It's been over a week. Life is so full it's hard to find the time to write about it, but that's the challaneg. And I'll take it.
So, here we are. Nearing the 4th (!) week of living in New York City. I can't believe it's going so fast. I kinda feel like running out and trying to drag on all the second hands of all the clocks, to stop time, or at least to make it go a little slower.
My time is little more than half over, and I don't want it to be. I love it here.
This past week (and a half) has been really rooting for me. And by that I mean, a lot of the things I have been struggling with, my challenges, my fears and my misconceptions are being transformed.
I spent over three hours sitting on the steps at Union square, watching the nearly full moon reflect back at me in the windows of Barns and Nobels as I sat with a friend. Our conversation the liquid between us, our hearts both soft and hard. It's been months since we've seen each other and our romantic entanglements have been many, but there was grace waiting for us that night and peace. And for that I am so extremely grateful.
There has been strength in speaking my mind, and in knowing my heart and asking for the space for it. There has been so much grace shown to me.
I saw my very first broadway show this past week. It was Cinderella.
It was absolutely spectacular.
The dress changes, really were like magic and the set was amazing.
I sat there in the cushy red seats in the back of the house and watched an entire fairytale come to life.
I loved it. I felt like the little girl inside of me, that woman who wants the kiss at the end of the night and the big white wedding dress was ultimately satisfied.
I've been told that there are better shows on broadway, and that Cinderella is a tad overdone.. and hey, who am I to contradict those voices? But the thing is. I think it was perfect to see Cinderella as my first (of undoubtedly many) broadway shows. Not just because I have been called a Cinderella kind of woman, but because it was meant to be that way. Here, let me explain:
The other evening I was walking home, alone, carrying my groceries from the market down the street, my arms were weighted down with lettuce and orange juice and my special grocery day grapefruit.
The streets were pretty quiet but the busses and cars were still running with gusto, their exhaust washing across the wet air. Sweat trickled down my back from the heat wave, gripping the city.
I was thinking, how much I love living here, how much I am finding a sense of pride in my own life, because this isn't easy, but intensely wonderful. I was walking along and I started to think of how short my time is, and how many things there are to do that I don't want to miss.
Seeing a broadway show is one of them. I stopped for a moment and lifted my head to the sky, and with a full, thankful and yearning heart I asked. "I would love to see a broadway show. Can I see a broadway show?"
The answer was silent, but it gave me joy.
10 minutes later, as I unlocked my front door I heard the sound of my phone getting a text message. I lugged my groceries onto the minuscule kitchen bench/ table and checked it. It was my good friend Erica, asking if I wanted a ticket to Cinderella that a lady in her course (broadway, directors workshop Yes, she's brilliant) didn't want.
My kitchen may or may not have had a dancing and grinning Elizabeth in it.
So that is what I mean, I think it was the perfect first show for me to see.
On that note, things like that have been happening a lot here. If I'm feeling a little lonely, and I ask for help- not to a person, just to God- it shows up.
The other night I was feeling a little low and asked for a little help. A family came onto the subway platform where I was leaning and shared their smiles with me. And when their train came, they all turned on the threshold of the subway car and waved at me. Such an impact of grace.
A woman walked by in Chacos. The shoes that were designed by my neighbors, and made for a long time in my tiny home town. They are a sign of home to me.
And then, as if that weren't enough, I ended up literally running into my friend in the middle of the Union Square station and we rode the L train home together. The probability of that happening is insanely improbable. And as we chatted, sitting in the corner of the swaying subway car I felt hit, again, with the aliveness and the bigness of humanity here. It's like breathing in grace.
I met a friend of mine in the park and we sat on a rail fence and talked about hearts for an hour. Music floated over us and the sun made everyone it touched perspire. Sweat is a new form of life here. I took off my shoes and let my feet dangle, my poor calluses, are going unused and soft here where there is so much concrete. I looked up at the green canopy above me and soaked up the green and the energy from the trees. I miss the vast wildland of home so much.
Music floated over the park from seven different directions, an indian beat from the northeast, and a wild trumpet from the west. I picked out a beat to dance to and my friend, Dana, and I danced, (barefoot for once) on the stone path, tourists making ways around us, and people standing yards away to watch. It felt good, free.
Later that same day, as I perused Facebook waiting for a friend I saw a post from one of my old teachers from Perry Mansfield, a performing arts school and camp in the mountains of Colorado, that said for all to come to a reading of short plays here in the city, but the most astounding thing was that it was at MY SCHOOL. He was working of my school and neither of us had known that before.
Of course I went to the reading of short plays and sat in the front row and when he got up to address the audience there I was, and when he saw me I smiled. And then so did he.
After the show there were many hugs and questions and answers. It was absolutely astonishing. I didn't know if he would even remember me, and it felt so good to be something that brought joy.
All of these things are things that I've done. Not nearly all the things I've done these past weeks, not nearly. But the thing I feel is missing from my stories are the little things.
It's walking home in the wee hours of a friday morning, the sweat clinging my black dress to my shoulders, the hipsters who are still drunk on the beer they drank before it was today, lining up outside the all night bagel shop down the street, eyes bleery but ready to smile.
It's getting home with groceries. It's mailing postcards and letters to the people back home and the people who have brought me, who have made it possible for me, to be sitting here on this cold bathroom floor writing these words out with a certainty, because I've lived them.
It's waking up and immediately wanting to give thanks, just like Nadia, from the plane, told me.
It's going into class and trying my hardest, to let go and be real and let myself be vulnerable, without pretending I'm not. It's running lines on the subway, the highlighter yellow on my page as the woman beside me, reads her side, our highlighted lines matching in color. It's being called for a date, and the butterflies that live in my stomach as I try and figure out what to wear.
It's sitting on a blanket in central park, my paints spread out around me and the ground (oh, the ground) beneath me.
It's being kissed on the Brooklyn bridge at midnight, the soles of my feet soft and stretched as I stand on tiptoe, to kiss him back.
It's meeting a friend, the kind you know your already friends with, on the sidewalk in the cool of the evening as you dance with your friends because the heat has broken and it is finally cool out on the street. Last night it was the stars, the first I've seen since I've been here, a handful of them, bright and shining over Brooklyn. It is showers and a kitchen and pictures and cards on my walls. It is the unknown in everyday, it is the excitement and and joy of creating a life that is mine, and that is ultimately, inspiring and fulfilling. It is shared beers and subway lines that take me home.
So, here we are. Nearing the 4th (!) week of living in New York City. I can't believe it's going so fast. I kinda feel like running out and trying to drag on all the second hands of all the clocks, to stop time, or at least to make it go a little slower.
My time is little more than half over, and I don't want it to be. I love it here.
This past week (and a half) has been really rooting for me. And by that I mean, a lot of the things I have been struggling with, my challenges, my fears and my misconceptions are being transformed.
I spent over three hours sitting on the steps at Union square, watching the nearly full moon reflect back at me in the windows of Barns and Nobels as I sat with a friend. Our conversation the liquid between us, our hearts both soft and hard. It's been months since we've seen each other and our romantic entanglements have been many, but there was grace waiting for us that night and peace. And for that I am so extremely grateful.
There has been strength in speaking my mind, and in knowing my heart and asking for the space for it. There has been so much grace shown to me.
I saw my very first broadway show this past week. It was Cinderella.
It was absolutely spectacular.
The dress changes, really were like magic and the set was amazing.
I sat there in the cushy red seats in the back of the house and watched an entire fairytale come to life.
I loved it. I felt like the little girl inside of me, that woman who wants the kiss at the end of the night and the big white wedding dress was ultimately satisfied.
I've been told that there are better shows on broadway, and that Cinderella is a tad overdone.. and hey, who am I to contradict those voices? But the thing is. I think it was perfect to see Cinderella as my first (of undoubtedly many) broadway shows. Not just because I have been called a Cinderella kind of woman, but because it was meant to be that way. Here, let me explain:
The other evening I was walking home, alone, carrying my groceries from the market down the street, my arms were weighted down with lettuce and orange juice and my special grocery day grapefruit.
The streets were pretty quiet but the busses and cars were still running with gusto, their exhaust washing across the wet air. Sweat trickled down my back from the heat wave, gripping the city.
I was thinking, how much I love living here, how much I am finding a sense of pride in my own life, because this isn't easy, but intensely wonderful. I was walking along and I started to think of how short my time is, and how many things there are to do that I don't want to miss.
Seeing a broadway show is one of them. I stopped for a moment and lifted my head to the sky, and with a full, thankful and yearning heart I asked. "I would love to see a broadway show. Can I see a broadway show?"
The answer was silent, but it gave me joy.
10 minutes later, as I unlocked my front door I heard the sound of my phone getting a text message. I lugged my groceries onto the minuscule kitchen bench/ table and checked it. It was my good friend Erica, asking if I wanted a ticket to Cinderella that a lady in her course (broadway, directors workshop Yes, she's brilliant) didn't want.
My kitchen may or may not have had a dancing and grinning Elizabeth in it.
So that is what I mean, I think it was the perfect first show for me to see.
On that note, things like that have been happening a lot here. If I'm feeling a little lonely, and I ask for help- not to a person, just to God- it shows up.
The other night I was feeling a little low and asked for a little help. A family came onto the subway platform where I was leaning and shared their smiles with me. And when their train came, they all turned on the threshold of the subway car and waved at me. Such an impact of grace.
A woman walked by in Chacos. The shoes that were designed by my neighbors, and made for a long time in my tiny home town. They are a sign of home to me.
And then, as if that weren't enough, I ended up literally running into my friend in the middle of the Union Square station and we rode the L train home together. The probability of that happening is insanely improbable. And as we chatted, sitting in the corner of the swaying subway car I felt hit, again, with the aliveness and the bigness of humanity here. It's like breathing in grace.
I met a friend of mine in the park and we sat on a rail fence and talked about hearts for an hour. Music floated over us and the sun made everyone it touched perspire. Sweat is a new form of life here. I took off my shoes and let my feet dangle, my poor calluses, are going unused and soft here where there is so much concrete. I looked up at the green canopy above me and soaked up the green and the energy from the trees. I miss the vast wildland of home so much.
Music floated over the park from seven different directions, an indian beat from the northeast, and a wild trumpet from the west. I picked out a beat to dance to and my friend, Dana, and I danced, (barefoot for once) on the stone path, tourists making ways around us, and people standing yards away to watch. It felt good, free.
Later that same day, as I perused Facebook waiting for a friend I saw a post from one of my old teachers from Perry Mansfield, a performing arts school and camp in the mountains of Colorado, that said for all to come to a reading of short plays here in the city, but the most astounding thing was that it was at MY SCHOOL. He was working of my school and neither of us had known that before.
Of course I went to the reading of short plays and sat in the front row and when he got up to address the audience there I was, and when he saw me I smiled. And then so did he.
After the show there were many hugs and questions and answers. It was absolutely astonishing. I didn't know if he would even remember me, and it felt so good to be something that brought joy.
All of these things are things that I've done. Not nearly all the things I've done these past weeks, not nearly. But the thing I feel is missing from my stories are the little things.
It's walking home in the wee hours of a friday morning, the sweat clinging my black dress to my shoulders, the hipsters who are still drunk on the beer they drank before it was today, lining up outside the all night bagel shop down the street, eyes bleery but ready to smile.
It's getting home with groceries. It's mailing postcards and letters to the people back home and the people who have brought me, who have made it possible for me, to be sitting here on this cold bathroom floor writing these words out with a certainty, because I've lived them.
It's waking up and immediately wanting to give thanks, just like Nadia, from the plane, told me.
It's going into class and trying my hardest, to let go and be real and let myself be vulnerable, without pretending I'm not. It's running lines on the subway, the highlighter yellow on my page as the woman beside me, reads her side, our highlighted lines matching in color. It's being called for a date, and the butterflies that live in my stomach as I try and figure out what to wear.
It's sitting on a blanket in central park, my paints spread out around me and the ground (oh, the ground) beneath me.
It's being kissed on the Brooklyn bridge at midnight, the soles of my feet soft and stretched as I stand on tiptoe, to kiss him back.
It's meeting a friend, the kind you know your already friends with, on the sidewalk in the cool of the evening as you dance with your friends because the heat has broken and it is finally cool out on the street. Last night it was the stars, the first I've seen since I've been here, a handful of them, bright and shining over Brooklyn. It is showers and a kitchen and pictures and cards on my walls. It is the unknown in everyday, it is the excitement and and joy of creating a life that is mine, and that is ultimately, inspiring and fulfilling. It is shared beers and subway lines that take me home.
