leap before you look
According to my Astrology Zone calendar, traditionally women propose to men on Leap Year Day. I proposed once, sort of. It was February of 1997 (not a Leap Year), and my boyfriend and I had been dating for about 6 weeks. Our first date had been on New Year’s Eve, which was his birthday, in New York City. That February night, we were sitting in my car, staying dry from a light drizzle. The light of the near-full moon shone brightly through the windshield. We were talking about love and marriage, hypothetically, or so I thought. He asked, Do you want to get married? I answered yes, I think so, believing that he was asking in a general sense. Then I asked the same of him, and he answered yes. I was a bit surprised; he didn’t seem like the marrying type. So then I more specifically asked, proposed, Will you marry me? He said yes. He asked me back, and I said yes. One day, about 2 or 3 years into our marriage, he overheard me telling this story, explaining how I had proposed first. He called me out for mis-telling the story, saying that actually he had asked first, that his “generally-speaking” question was, in fact, his proposal. We agreed from that point on to say we mutually proposed.
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The sense of danger must not disappear:
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it looks from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.
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This past President’s Day weekend marked my seven year anniversary in New York. My crush began many years before as a little girl living in the suburbs of New Jersey, going into the city with my family each year to see the Thanksgiving Day Parade, and attending shows like Cinderella and Annie with my father. When I was a teenager living in Rhode Island, my family came back to celebrate the centennial of the Statue of Liberty. We stood on the marshy land of Liberty State Park watching fireworks, and stayed up all night eating diner food before returning home. On another occasion, my dad drove my friends and me to the city for a day to visit the Twin Towers. I remember going to the gift shop in the observation tower, and buying a pin with a picture of a group of punks that read “With Love from New York” to add to the collection I wore on my jean jacket.
Ours had been a tortured affair for about five years leading up to President’s Day weekend of 2005. After every visit to the city since 2000, I would return to my home in a seaside town on the North Shore of Boston, and be depressed for days. It was like I had experienced the intoxicating high of an illicit affair, only to return home to a much more subdued reality, one where I was restless and longing. It was a crushing low, and needless to say, it caused a lot of conflict with my husband.
We didn’t actually move to New York until August of 2005, but that President’s Day weekend was the turning point. By then we were living in the North End (the Italian neighborhood) of Boston. The Boston move was a compromise my husband and I had finally agreed upon a couple of years prior after we had traveled to Italy. I remember riding on the Chinatown bus to the city that February weekend and writing in my journal that I was looking forward to our visit, which was a combined celebration of my 30th birthday, Valentine’s Day, and our eighth engagement anniversary; but for the first time, I didn’t have my usual pining. I was content with our life in Boston. We arrived in the city that Saturday morning and decided to walk from Chinatown to our little hostel-like hotel room in Union Square. We walked along Mulberry and Lafayette, and made our way to the big Starbucks at Astor Place. While we were enjoying our hot chocolates, my husband said, Let’s do it. Let’s move here. I was speechless. It was as if he were proposing all over again, and on the very same day, February 19th. Of course, I said yes. That night, riding high, we went out for drinks and to see a Philip Seymour Hoffman play at The Public.
We excitedly told our friends at brunch the next morning. Then that evening, we were in our room talking about how good it would be for us to live in New York when suddenly I was overcome with an ominous gut feeling, a pit in my stomach. Something wasn’t right: yes, we would move to New York, but no, it wasn’t going to be good for us. We fought about it a bit, but in a vague way (which is the most frustrating way to fight) because I couldn’t articulate my gut feeling. I would experience that same feeling a year and a half later, when we were living in New York, and my husband decided to leave.
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A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear:
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.
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When we returned home to Boston, we were both quiet and down for a few days. That weekend forever changed us. It was as if we’d had a threesome that went terribly wrong and unearthed all these feelings of jealousy and rage and discontent. When we finally spoke again, we realized we could no longer live in Boston. We had to move to New York. I agreed, but only under one condition: we would go if I found a job (we had invested much more into my education and career than his.) The very next day I went to my job at the MFA Boston and sent out a few query emails. Within 30 seconds (no exaggeration), my now supervisor at Parsons replied about teaching there the following fall semester. I interviewed a few weeks later and lined up two classes. We decided to move on the promise of a paltry $6000. Soon after, my husband found an administrative position at St. Vincent’s Hospital. His job and mine were one block away from each other in the heart of Greenwich Village.
Everyone we knew who knew anything about living in New York had plenty of advice to dispense about apartment hunting. They told us: move to Brooklyn, Manhattan is so over. You’ll never find an affordable place in Manhattan unless you live very far north. You’ll be lucky to get something rent-stabilized. Be prepared to commute at least an hour on the subway to get to your jobs. And on and on it went. But we knew what we wanted: an affordable, rent-stabilized apartment below 14th Street. We just couldn’t agree on what side. He wanted east. I wanted west.
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In E.B. White’s classic, Here is New York, he speaks of putting down roots so that luck can find you. Little did I know the afternoon we found our place that my roots were already there. We later discovered through family records that my paternal ancestors—Thomas, a sign painter, and his wife Eliza, a dressmaker—had lived diagonally across the street in 1875, a hundred years before my birth. They lived at 205, we were at 234.
Our building was the last place we looked at with our broker, a former Bostonian, we found on Craigslist that morning. I remember approaching our block, which was one block from our prospective jobs, and seeing the green awning, black bricks, and glass door of our building, and knowing that I was home. I could feel it in my gut. Due to the competitive and rapid pace of New York real estate, we didn’t end up getting the apartment we originally toured. Instead we were offered a priced-reduced, rent-stabilized, 325-square-foot studio at the east end of the second floor. We took it, sight unseen. My husband moved in July, sent me photographs and measurements so I could create an interior design plan, and I followed in August, ready to paint and decorate every last inch of the place. One night a few months after my arrival, I had a dream that I was packing up my husband’s things and redecorating our apartment to suit myself.
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Much can be said for social savior-faire,
But to rejoice when no one else is there
Is even harder than it is to weep;
No one is watching, but you have to leap.
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February is a special month with lucky love days like today. Days to leap, to follow your gut. Seven is a sacred, mystical number: of heavens and seas, of deadly sins and natural wonders. A number signifying cycles of time and creation, of destruction and construction, of physical and spiritual regeneration, of endings and beginnings, as the priest spoke of in my wedding homily.
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To my ex-husband, wherever you are: thank you, thank you, thank you. For everything.
To my son, my little lovebug New Yorker: no matter where you go in this world, may you always feel at home and know lots of love, love, love.
And to my beloved city: living here makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world. You give good love.
{poem by W.H. Auden}
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body beautiful
Fashion Week is happening in New York City, and all the beautiful people have come out to play.
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As a young girl, I wanted to be one of those beautiful people, or at least be a part of their creation. I spent long hours studying magazines, getting lost in the fantasies depicted in the spreads. I dreamt of being a model (too short); or a designer (amateur at best); or someone famous enough (a pop star perhaps?) to score a front row seat at a runway show (didn’t make the cut). Like many little girls, I dressed up in high heels, stuffed two oranges in my t-shirt, sneaked into my mom’s makeup, cut out fake nails from Scotch tape, and crafted elaborate creations from aprons and lingerie. I learned how to sew and crochet at an early age, and as a seventh grader, I took lessons in fashion illustration from an artist who had married into the Capezio family (oh yeah, I wanted to be a dancer, too). I started collecting vintage clothes in high school, and my dream was to go to RISD then on to The Big Apple.
Even though I was blessed with incredibly supportive parents, I was socialized in a religious environment (church and school, both often taking place in the same building) that condemned artistic, self-expressive pursuits, especially those pertaining to the body, female sexuality, or the “frivolity” of fashion. With a graduate degree from URI, which everyone mistakes for RISD; a marriage on the brink of implosion; and little bit of luck (secular education, divorce, and superstition also condemned by said religion), I finally made it to New York at 30. I never did attend RISD, but I now teach at Parsons, so the scales seem balanced.
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I am in the fashion world, but not of it. As an adjunct fashion history professor and a part-time museum curator, I’ve chosen to sit on the sidelines as a critical observer more so than a participant, and I’ve had a subpar wardrobe and sense of style to boot. It’s turned into a love/hate relationship, and I feel I’ve become what Julie Cameron refers to in her book The Artist’s Way as the “shadow artist”: a creative who chooses a career that is close to the life they themselves desire, but are too afraid to pursue. I hadn’t realized until a few years and a couple of major life changes ago that I was scared, and that a significant part of the fear is the discomfort of not feeling at home in my own skin.
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I painfully remember the first time I felt self-conscious about my body. I was 11. I had been invited over to my older sister’s boyfriend’s house to go swimming with his sister. I wore a fuschia, turquoise, and white color-blocked one-piece with a halter tie-string. My hair was styled like Princess Diana’s, and my skin was pasty white. The boyfriend’s sister, who was a little older than me, and very tall and lean by comparison, had long, straight, black hair, an olive complexion, and wore a solid black one piece. Simple and chic. I remember standing at the top of the pool ladder, putting my hand on my abdomen and feeling sick: like my body was inadequate, like I had it all sartorially wrong. After jumping into the pool, I never wanted to get out, even though I knew my wet hair made me look like a bird. I felt weightless in the water, and its ripples distorted the lines of my figure.
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As a birthday gift to myself this year, I joined the YMCA around the corner. The facility is as nice as the private gyms I’ve belonged to in the past: a well-maintained track and swimming pool, updated machines, body wash in the showers and blow dryers at the sink. Although I signed up for a variety of health reasons (lose the last of the baby weight, get back into good shape, etc.), I did it mostly because the Y staff will watch my toddler for two hours a day, seven days a week, for $80 a month (thank you Parsons for the discount), until he is seven years old. They don’t care what I do for those two hours as long as I stay on the premises. Any stay-at-home mom, or any mother for that matter, will understand when I say that this has become the height of luxury in my day. My two-hour window looks something like this: exercise for 20-30 mins., then spend the remaining time meditating in the sauna or steam room, taking a long, hot shower (and shaving!), blowdrying and styling my hair, giving myself a facial, and leafing through fashion magazines in the members lounge. Next month I plan to sign up for massage therapy to round out the spa experience.
Being the new girl, I’ve had to learn the ropes. For instance, members are allowed two towels: the striped one is smaller and better for wrapping up my wet hair, while the solid one is a bit longer for my body, but it’s still really skimpy and barely covers me. It’s also best to use the little plastic stool provided in the showers to hold the curtain away so that it doesn’t cling to my wet body, although the water pressure is so wonderfully intense that if I angle the shower head just right, it’ll blow the curtain out of the way. However, this leaves me exposed like the skimpy towel, which brings me to my next point: there is SO much un-self-conscious nudity in this women’s lounge!
My previous experience with nudity in girls’ and women’s locker rooms has left me feeling one of two ways: ashamed, thanks to religious high school and undergrad, or painfully self-conscious like my 11-year-old self, particularly at private gyms where everyone already seems to be in immaculate shape. But at the Y: women 18 to 80, short to tall, sized XS to XXXL, taut, saggy, perky, droopy, hairy, smooth, ripply, wide, narrow, light, dark, spotty, ALL NAKED. Walking around, naked. Lounging in the steam room and sauna, naked. Blowdrying their hair, naked. Putting their make-up on, naked. Engaging in small talk, naked. Moving about easily and effortlessly naked, like children, all comfortable in their own skin.
It shocked me the first day, as I tip toed around, hunched over, trying to keep myself covered. By my third visit, I was naked with the best of them. Today it struck me how incredibly gorgeous we all are. I wish I could create a centerfold, especially of the ladies in the sauna.
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These are the beautiful people.
And I am one of them, and so are you.
So let’s just praise the lord.
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take me to tulum, please
I’ve been thinking about Mexico. A lot.
Despite an unseasonably warm winter in New York City thus far, I want to go warmer, tropical.
It all started two years ago, when I was first pregnant but didn’t know it yet, and I went to see my intuitive healer. She sensed strong male energy around me (come to find out, he was in my belly) and recommended a restorative trip to the Mayan Riviera to nurture my “mother within.” Unfortunately, I didn’t budget for a babymoon in time before becoming a “mother without.”
Then, last February, The Selby did a gorgeous spread about Mya Henry and Eric Werner’s restaurant Hartwood in Tulum. After many consecutive sleepless nights with a newborn, my interest and appetite were renewed. Hartwood is LOCATED ON THE JUNGLE SIDE OF TULUM BEACH ROAD. I daydreamed of sun-drenched days and sandy paths, starry skies and balmy nights; sitting down at a candlelit table, surrounded by lush palm trees and good people, to eat a whole roasted fish and octopus salad. Oh, and the tomatoes!
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As per my birthday tradition, I went to see my gipsy (her spelling) Tiffany last week for my annual $5 palm reading. In addition to encouraging prospects for my at-home creative career and my long and healthy life line (although she cut 10 years off of it from my last visit: yikes, I need a vacation!), she saw a trip to Mexico in my near future. Specifically, she said that I was a little bored with my urban home base (so-so), and that I needed to shake it up, to get away and explore, preferably in the warm sun and salt water (and a jungle perhaps?). Soon thereafter, I read Josh Pais‘ post about a few open spots still available for his upcoming Committed Impulse retreat in (you guessed it) Tulum.
I think I’ve seen enough signs. Now, if I could just get the taco truck to take me there.
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One of my favorite writers/bloggers/soul sisters is Danielle LaPorte. Whenever I read her writing, I get goosebumps and break into a song of Yes! Yes! Yes! (Can’t wait to read The Firestarter Sessions when it comes out in April. You can download a sneak peek here.) This past week, she launched a new series called The Burning Question. First up: How do you want it all to feel?
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The Mayan calendar ends on Friday, December 21, 2012, and perhaps the world as we know it does, too. Neptune entered Pisces this past week: dove into the ocean again for the first time since the mid-19th century when, among other world-altering events, gold rushes took place, slavery was abolished, suffragists gained ground, Transcendentalist thought flowered, and industrialization and mass production kicked into high gear. Neptune, planet of the underworld, moves at a languid pace: what I imagine it to be in Tulum. It’ll stay in its home sign of Pisces until 2026, so we have a whole new 14-year cycle of compassion and creativity. Plenty of time to feel how we want it all to feel.
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I want the tingle of goosebumps, as though at any moment I could break into a Yes! Yes! Yes! and do cartwheels down a city street. I want it lush, wild and enchanted, reverberated by the night sounds of a dense jungle and crackling fire.
The warm sun on my face, the burning question.
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I’m back.
The sun has entered Aquarius. Today is my birthday. I’m back.
Our summer holiday gave way to an autumnal sabbatical. We didn’t return to our beloved city until October. Then, before we knew it, Thanksgiving, the Winter Solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza & various New Years were upon us. We were also sick for a month with a relentless virus that included a hospital stay for my little one. All are well now, thankfully.
During the holiday downtime, I found myself contemplating a friend’s tweet that essentially said she wanted more experiences rather than more stuff. Although there are still lots of things I desire (a bigger apartment, a beach bungalow, an antique daybed, an entirely new wardrobe, etc.), I resonate with her yearning for deeper, richer, fuller experiences.
I particularly want experiences that make me feel lighter & freer in my body, that nudge me out of my comfort zone (is this a midlife crisis talking?). With that in mind, I celebrated New Year’s Eve doing an intense midnight yoga class at Strala (my favorite yoga studio in the city) followed by a Committed Impulse workshop a few days later. (Josh Pais is an actor who trains actors, or civilians like myself; his methods can feel awkward at first, but after writhing around on the floor & pretending I was Wonder Woman, I felt invincible.)
Last weekend, I headed out to catch the final days of Carsten Holler’s EXPERIENCE at the New Museum. It was installation art meets performance art, where the visitor is the performer/participant. Holler, a scientist turned artist, creates these, well… experiences.
I went alone, but quickly made friends with other museum goers as we explored magic mushroom sculptures while wearing 3D goggles, & relaxed on a mirrored carousel while listening to caged birds sing.
Then came the slide that twisted through 3 floors. I felt a slight hesitation, some butterflies in the stomach, before joining the others in line. We donned bike helmets & talked nervously, excitedly like kids waiting to get on a roller coaster. When my turn was up, I was given a sack for my feet (to keep the ride smooth) & told to keep my chin to my chest & arms straight down the front of my body.
The ride felt both fast & slow at the same time. Sheer exhilaration. As a former museum professional, it was such a release to squeal very loudly in a hallowed gallery space without being escorted out.
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I want to cultivate more spontaneous experiences, too. This past weekend, my sister flew in from Raleigh to celebrate my birthday. We’d been (half) joking about trying to run into Lenny Kravitz (a shared secret crush of ours for years), who, according to the tabloids, is looking for love. On Saturday, I happened to come across a post about him playing that night at Radio City Music Hall. We found cheap tickets & good seats on Stubhub, & within hours we were giggling like school girls, dancing in our seats, feeling the beats in our chest & the enormous energy of a crowd who were letting love rule.
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According to the Weekly Weather, this could be one of the most profound weeks of our lives. I can feel the shift. I can feel it in my bones.
It’s good to be back, dear readers. It’s good to be home.
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weekly photo challenge: SUNSET
weekly photo challenge: FALL
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hair raising
