Savage Beauty

Today I accomplished my work tasks -- phone calls, reading, and processing the many stories bouncing around my head, while walking around the city and getting a big dose of culture.  On my morning amble through Central Park I was entertained my numerous mommy and me classes.  To a rhythmic drum beat  kids in orange tee shirts jumped up and down.  Further along the path a group of toddlers shook tambourines.  Near the boat house, a harpsichordist gracefully plucked the strings of her gold instrument, and I wondered if she ever cursed while lugging the harp into the depths of the park.  The air was thick with moisture, threatening rain, and with impeccable timing big drops fell from the sky when I was just steps away from the entrance to the Met where I was meeting a friend.  Our conversation was circuitous as we wandered through the Alexander McQueen Savage Beauty exhibit.  Meticulously tailored costumes from collections constructed from razor clams, peacock feathers, and tartan plaid graced the galleries.  Gothic music, and mirrored walls enhanced the atmosphere.  This beautifully curated show highlighted McQueen's unique vision and confidence.  I was awed and inspired.  In the evening I met my cousin for drinks followed by a performance of the Motherfucker With The Hat.  The uber talented cast entertained from the opening scene.  My feet are sore, and unfortunately blistered from long walks through neighborhoods teeming with locals and tourists.  And my heart is full with love for this city I once called home.

Unconditional

AGA is the delightful daughter of my oldest and dearest friend. At seven, she's older than when her mother and I first met and bonded for life. We live on different coasts so our visits are unfortunately infrequent, but when we do see each other AGA gives me long, affectionate hugs. We chat and giggle, and I adore looking into her big brown eyes. I've loved her unconditionally since she was a seed in her mother's womb. Last night we met for dinner at a rooftop garden, we discussed her plans for the summer, and played with the photo booth app on my ipad. We laughed uncontrollably at the horrific images. She leaped into my arms when it was time to say goodbye, her soft curls nestled in my neck. "I always wanted your hair,"her mother said, "and now I've gotten it."

Summer in the City

Last night I took NJ Transit into the city and arrived as the sun was setting over the river.  Magic hour cast a golden hue as I wheeled my luggage the few blocks from the subway station to PKH's apartment.  I was in the flow of those returning to the metropolis after a respite spent in beach houses, or country cottages.   On the west coast, summer eases across the calender at an unhurried pace, days gradually get warmer, and for a few nights in August shorts and tank tops are appropriate attire for an evening BBQ.   In NYC I was immediately assaulted by the sights, smells and sounds of the season.   I dropped off my bag and immediately went for a stroll stimulated by the energy emanating from the streets.  

Cartwheels

I did cartwheels today.  I wanted to make sure I could still propel my body sideways onto my hands and spring forth.  In my youth, I spent hours tumbling and twirling in any space large enough for me to spring my body across the ground.  Spending a few days in an adult community has made me hyper aware of the aging process, the hardening of the body, the loss of buoyancy and bounce.   So while grilling vegetables in my parents' backyard, I had a strong urge to put down the tongs, and cartwheel across the freshly mowed grass.  So I did.

Eighty

Eighty years ago my mother's first cries rang through an apartment on Mott Street in lower Manhattan. Her five year old sister threatened that if the baby was a girl she was going to throw her off the fire escape.  After being introduced to her sister, hours after her birth, my aunt had a change of heart.  We gathered for a family BBQ to celebrate the occasion. Through out the day neighbors popped in, flowers were delivered, and renditions of happy birthday accumulated on the answering machine.  Running errands the day prior, my mother announced her goal was to live to 100.  She's the image of health and vitality, waking at 6am every morning with a full social calendar, attending lunches and cultural events with her many groups.  She cooks, cleans and tends to many of the household needs.  My mother's sole indulgence has been a life long love affair with coffee.  She started drinking it as a child in her mother's kitchen, and for years had a 10 cup a day habit. Today she imbibes 3 cups, the last one before bed, which doesn't seem to keep her up at night or interrupt her sleep.  My mother is an inspiration and I can only hope I age with her vigor and stamina.  I wouldn't be surprised if in 20 years we're celebrating her centennial.  Happy Birthday Mom!

Sitcom World

Visiting my parents is like walking onto the set of a sitcom.  This morning while my mother was outside potting her pink hibiscus she was interrupted by her neighbor Herbie and she just had to bring him in for an introduction.  On his way back from the health fair at the community's club house, Herbie reported, "attendance was low".   "Nobody is interested in getting bad news," was my father's retort.  "I got a quick joke, and it's not dirty", Herbie said as if my young ears might be offended by risque material.  Herbie's the kind of guy who keeps a catalog of jokes in his mind, and replenishes the stock often.  This tale of a 80 year old woman, on the eve of marrying her fourth husband, ended with "one for the money, two  for the show, three for the ready and four for the go" and a little two step.  His pacing and delivery were perfect, and most importantly the punch line got laughs.  Herbie was gone as quickly as he arrived.  "He's got an interesting story", my father said as soon as the door slammed, "used to work for the mob."  "What?"  "Well he used to work on the docks, and those guys dealt with the mob."  I'm sure Herbie and his jokes did just fine.

Life is Good

I know life is good when three months into working I still don't know what day of the week it is.  I have admittedly spent years ticking off the days until Friday.  In the beginning of my career I'd get giddy as the days drew closer to the weekend and the impending social activities on my calender.   But for many years my life took on a different rhythm -- five days on, 2 days off.  The weekends were simply non-office days.  I'd allocate my energy accordingly, knowing how much I would need to make it to the end.  Some weekends social engagements were canceled due to exhaustion, errands or work.  Unforunately, recreation was often sacrificed for recuperation.  I'm grateful for this major shift, for not being able to differentiate Monday from Wednesday, for practicing yoga on a weekday afternoon, for taking a sunset hike, for hanging out with friends at night without the dark shadow cast from an early morning meeting.  May this wonderful feeling never wear off.