This week I went over to a friend's house to help her pack and to be entertained by her adorable two-year-old son. We were in their bedroom, packing and sorting and Andrew was playing on his own. At some point in the morning, he walked into the room holding a little package that my friend had made up for his birthday party. It had two cookies and a magnet of Andrew in a clear plastic bag and was sealed with a cute label she had stamped. Andrew pulled at the package, trying to open it, showing it to us, and mumbling in his almost-speaking sort of way.
I assumed that he wanted a cookie, because that's what he was holding, and what kid doesn't want a cookie? I'm not sure what my friend was thinking. Maybe she knew what he needed in that sixth sense way that mothers develop, or maybe she needed some time to put together all the clues. She told him that they were saving the package for his uncle; I asked Andrew if he wanted a cookie. Neither of our comments made any impression on him. He just continued to pull at the wrapping and motion to us. After about a minute of this, my friend stopped her packing, took the package from him, and said, "do you want a snack?" Andrew's eyes lit up instantly when she asked this, and he repeated, "snack." There was such visible relief in his little face at discovering this word, like "ha! I've found the word that will get me what I want." He toddled after her to the kitchen and came back smiling with grape tomatoes.
I've been thinking about that moment of relief on Andrew's face today. I've been thinking how I can feel like that some days when I'm writing. I will try out all of these words and sentences and feel like Andrew struggling with that packaging. And then suddenly I'll get it. I'll find the word or the phrase or the way of thinking that makes it all seem clear.
"Snack." That's a pretty powerful word for Andrew to remember. And he's starting to realize the power that it holds.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
NYC really is a small town
So, funny thing happened to me today. About three months ago, Eric and I were in a coffee shop in the East Village and we saw a family of four walk in. I remember them because the father looked quite old, like he might be in his late 50's or even 60's and he had two small girls who looked to be about 3 and 5. I stared at them because I often think about Eric being an older father someday, not to say Eric will ever be 60 with a toddler, but still, he's much older than my parents were when they had me and my brothers, so I notice older parents. I point this out only to demonstrate that I really did stare, discreetly of course.
Then today, when I was picking up our vegetables from the local CSA, I saw this man and his two daughters again. I guess they live in Jackson Heights, like me, and they are also part of the CSA. I thought he looked familiar, but then when I saw him with his girls, I was sure it was the same person. One of the girls was even wearing the same cute red shoes.
So strange, to take notice of a person in Manhattan and then to learn that they are my neighbor.
Then today, when I was picking up our vegetables from the local CSA, I saw this man and his two daughters again. I guess they live in Jackson Heights, like me, and they are also part of the CSA. I thought he looked familiar, but then when I saw him with his girls, I was sure it was the same person. One of the girls was even wearing the same cute red shoes.
So strange, to take notice of a person in Manhattan and then to learn that they are my neighbor.
Subways and Sermons
Riding the subway brings me in contact with NYC. I'm struck now, when driving, by how private and isolated the car is. Sometimes it's a relief to be in a car. I don't have to worry about how much stuff I'm carrying with me, I don't have to take a round about route, and I get to just sit for long stretches. But most days, I enjoy the subway. I enjoy the people watching, the moving, the life of it.
Yesterday on the train I was reading and noticed that I could hear what sounded like a Celine Dion song. I looked up, expecting to see someone's headphones blaring, but instead saw a man in his twenties holding his sidekick up to his ear and quietly singing along. He was wearing shorts, a t-shirt, a ski cap, and winter gloves.
Then a middle-aged black man in ironed jeans and a tucked in button down shirt stepped onto the train at 46th Street in Queens. He walked a couple of steps into the train, clasped his hands in front of his body, and looked around with gravity. He took a breath and began projecting his powerful, lilting voice with a West Indies accent. For a few seconds, it was charming, as that accent is, and then I felt the subtle rage. He was quoting Scripture, and then he was preaching, about salvation, damnation, the fiery lakes of hell. He spoke with controlled pace, clear enunciation, and a volume that punctured the ear drums. His voice rose and fell in a melodious pattern that mocked the angry tone and subject matter of his sermon.
"The judgment has already begun. The Lord is using his army to judge the church...And it will be a multitude, this multitude is mentioned in Revelations...But do not rejoice that the churches are being judged. Know that the world is also under judgment. For thus sayeth the Lord....If you remain, you SHALL die. You may read Jeremiah 38, verses...You may read St. Luke 21:20."
Everyone on the train sat silently ignoring him. I tried to read, but found I couldn't shut out his voice. Unlike the beggars or performers, his spiel didn't end after a couple of stops. He persisted for twenty long minutes, until at last, he came to the end of his message, and he stopped as abruptly as he began, standing in silence as the train rocked in the dark underground tunnel that brought us into Manhattan.
My day ended at a dessert party for the Storytelling Group that I've come to love. One of the storytellers was an extremely tall black man with dreadlocks tied up in a dark blue head wrap. He charmed us all with his voices, faces, and songs. And then he got out his guitar and began to strum a song about Water, Water. A Samaritan woman went to a well, but when she saw Jesus, she dropped her bucket. But he gave her Water, Water, living, loving water. And as his soft voice sang this story, I was filled with joy and elation. And I thought that I wanted some of that living, loving water. And I wished that Samaritan woman had stepped on to my train this morning instead.
Yesterday on the train I was reading and noticed that I could hear what sounded like a Celine Dion song. I looked up, expecting to see someone's headphones blaring, but instead saw a man in his twenties holding his sidekick up to his ear and quietly singing along. He was wearing shorts, a t-shirt, a ski cap, and winter gloves.
Then a middle-aged black man in ironed jeans and a tucked in button down shirt stepped onto the train at 46th Street in Queens. He walked a couple of steps into the train, clasped his hands in front of his body, and looked around with gravity. He took a breath and began projecting his powerful, lilting voice with a West Indies accent. For a few seconds, it was charming, as that accent is, and then I felt the subtle rage. He was quoting Scripture, and then he was preaching, about salvation, damnation, the fiery lakes of hell. He spoke with controlled pace, clear enunciation, and a volume that punctured the ear drums. His voice rose and fell in a melodious pattern that mocked the angry tone and subject matter of his sermon.
"The judgment has already begun. The Lord is using his army to judge the church...And it will be a multitude, this multitude is mentioned in Revelations...But do not rejoice that the churches are being judged. Know that the world is also under judgment. For thus sayeth the Lord....If you remain, you SHALL die. You may read Jeremiah 38, verses...You may read St. Luke 21:20."
Everyone on the train sat silently ignoring him. I tried to read, but found I couldn't shut out his voice. Unlike the beggars or performers, his spiel didn't end after a couple of stops. He persisted for twenty long minutes, until at last, he came to the end of his message, and he stopped as abruptly as he began, standing in silence as the train rocked in the dark underground tunnel that brought us into Manhattan.
My day ended at a dessert party for the Storytelling Group that I've come to love. One of the storytellers was an extremely tall black man with dreadlocks tied up in a dark blue head wrap. He charmed us all with his voices, faces, and songs. And then he got out his guitar and began to strum a song about Water, Water. A Samaritan woman went to a well, but when she saw Jesus, she dropped her bucket. But he gave her Water, Water, living, loving water. And as his soft voice sang this story, I was filled with joy and elation. And I thought that I wanted some of that living, loving water. And I wished that Samaritan woman had stepped on to my train this morning instead.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Strawberries and Experimenting with Photos
Sunday, Eric and I drove out to Jamesport, Long Island to pick strawberries from the farm that supplies our weekly CSA share. It was a bit too much driving for the amount of time we got to enjoy on the farm, but we still had a great time. And it has inspired much strawberry cooking. So in a nod to my friend Robyn, who's crafting/cooking blog is truly impressive, I'll share some of my Monday baking.
It tastes as good as it looks!
It tastes as good as it looks!
Letters To A Young Poet
I was listening to Krista Tippett read her book on Speaking of Faith today and she quoted a passage of Rilke that touched me as particularly relevant to my life today. I copied it from this wonderful site which allows you to read the letters in full.
I am trying to follow some unresolved questions in my own heart. I'm trying to remember a time when I felt more freedom to dream and desire. And I like this reminder that answers are only valuable if I'm able to live them. There's a lot that can be known with the mind, but not the body and spirit, and that knowledge hasn't served me all that well. I'm trying to take the time to let my body and spirit catch up to things I've been telling myself in my mind.
You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
I am trying to follow some unresolved questions in my own heart. I'm trying to remember a time when I felt more freedom to dream and desire. And I like this reminder that answers are only valuable if I'm able to live them. There's a lot that can be known with the mind, but not the body and spirit, and that knowledge hasn't served me all that well. I'm trying to take the time to let my body and spirit catch up to things I've been telling myself in my mind.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Henry David Thoreau
The first author I have to read for my writing class is Thoreau. I'm reading his essay on Walking. I have mixed feelings about Thoreau. Part of me wishes I could subscribe to his philosophy of running off to the woods to grow my own food and live life fully. Another part of me thinks this is an overly idealistic perspective on life and wonders why the American psyche is so fascinated with running off to the woods. (This is part of what drives me crazy about living with my brain.)
But I was given several great quotes from my ESL trainers, and one of them is from Thoreau. And when I read it, I remembered why I have enjoyed reading the bits of Thoreau's writing that have come my way. I hope I enjoy the essay on Walking as much as this quote.
"We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a stature, and so to make a few things beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of the arts. Every person is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour....I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could live what was not life, living is so dear, nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life...
-from On Walden Pond
But I was given several great quotes from my ESL trainers, and one of them is from Thoreau. And when I read it, I remembered why I have enjoyed reading the bits of Thoreau's writing that have come my way. I hope I enjoy the essay on Walking as much as this quote.
"We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a stature, and so to make a few things beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of the arts. Every person is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour....I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could live what was not life, living is so dear, nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life...
-from On Walden Pond
Update On Me
So I've been avoiding blogging again for a while. I get shy and feel vulnerable about posting, but I think it's time to return.
I finished my ESL certification this week. Three months of night classes are over, and I'm now ready to go out an teach. I wish I were more excited to go out and teach. I think I'm just getting in a rut working so little. It feels overwhelming to think of preparing lessons and being in the classroom so much. (I hate how lazy I sound admitting this.) But I am kind of looking forward to getting more involved in the world. And so the job hunt begins. Depending on how picky I am, there is high need for ESL teachers in NYC in the summer. So it at least that is working in my favor.
I have started an online writing class with the New School. I'm really excited to be doing this. It should be inspiration - of the fear of public humiliation type - to write. And I believe this will be a good thing for me. Remind me of this when I'm whining in a couple of months.
Summer is just about here, and NYC is in its typical cloudy/sunny June phase. I love it. Our CSA started two weeks ago and the fridge is full of fresh lettuce, turnips, and radishes. I'm looking through cookbooks again and grateful for the opportunity to not attend night class, but to stay home and cook again.
Since moving to NYC, the following events have happened to me in June:
-I started dating Eric
-I went ring shopping with Eric (on the day of the Puerto Rican parade, which meant the diamond district was practically shut down and we could have gotten the most amazing deal on a ring if only we'd trusted the situation and been willing to buy a ring on the first day we went shopping)
-My parents came to visit and help us set up our new apartment
-Friends have birthday parties
-School ends :)
So June is a happy month full of happy memories and still bearable summer weather. This year has been no exception.
And one last thing - Happy Birthday Jim! My brother turns 28 on Wednesday.
I finished my ESL certification this week. Three months of night classes are over, and I'm now ready to go out an teach. I wish I were more excited to go out and teach. I think I'm just getting in a rut working so little. It feels overwhelming to think of preparing lessons and being in the classroom so much. (I hate how lazy I sound admitting this.) But I am kind of looking forward to getting more involved in the world. And so the job hunt begins. Depending on how picky I am, there is high need for ESL teachers in NYC in the summer. So it at least that is working in my favor.
I have started an online writing class with the New School. I'm really excited to be doing this. It should be inspiration - of the fear of public humiliation type - to write. And I believe this will be a good thing for me. Remind me of this when I'm whining in a couple of months.
Summer is just about here, and NYC is in its typical cloudy/sunny June phase. I love it. Our CSA started two weeks ago and the fridge is full of fresh lettuce, turnips, and radishes. I'm looking through cookbooks again and grateful for the opportunity to not attend night class, but to stay home and cook again.
Since moving to NYC, the following events have happened to me in June:
-I started dating Eric
-I went ring shopping with Eric (on the day of the Puerto Rican parade, which meant the diamond district was practically shut down and we could have gotten the most amazing deal on a ring if only we'd trusted the situation and been willing to buy a ring on the first day we went shopping)
-My parents came to visit and help us set up our new apartment
-Friends have birthday parties
-School ends :)
So June is a happy month full of happy memories and still bearable summer weather. This year has been no exception.
And one last thing - Happy Birthday Jim! My brother turns 28 on Wednesday.
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