It might have been simply where I was sleeping. As my eyes cracked open, I was met with the morning sun rising over the buildings visible from my 12th story room window. It’s as if the city was inviting me out to play. How could I say no to such a gracious offer?
I slowly got up off the floor, letting last night settle in my body properly. Late nights take a minute these days to manage. I quietly stretched all of the moving parts and acknowledged the slight sting in my arm where a bluebird rested permanently and tiptoed to the bathroom.
After showering and putting on last night’s clothes I wrote a note of thanks to my family, left the hotel, and entered into a conversation with New York City.
Having regular conversations with a city seems strange to the average person, I know. But not to me. The mix of concrete, glass, brick, and steel somehow give the city a personality and a language that I can understand. This morning I’m filled with questions. I have questions about identity, my future, and my marriage. I want to talk to her about the choices I’ve made in life and if there is forgiveness and how does one live forgiven. I want to ask about the good things in my life and how to honor them and if they are even mine to honor. I want to know if there is room for me in my life anymore.
I walked through the doors of the hotel and pause looking at the street. This is normal for me. When I’m here I seldom have a clear location that is my aim. Instead I enjoy the dialogue by being navigated by stronger forces. Today, the forces move me north. I saw the Empire State Building in the distance and figure I’ll just head toward it - the train home is close.
I started asking questions.
It was the kind of morning designed for questions. Early. Most of the city is fast asleep - having headed to bed just hours earlier. It’s an incredible feeling to have New York City to one’s self. The weather was right - sunny and drying itself from a 12-hour rain the day before. The light from the wet concrete give the city an extra glow - like beach goers with a tanning mirror.
My conversation takes on a cadence best described as meandering. I never walk a straight line - and neither to my conversations. I want straight answers, something I can just do that will make everything ok, but it seems she always just says the same thing to every question I have;
“Keep Walking”
I saw a street I recognize and make a turn, catching a glimpse of Washington Square’s arc in the distance. My walk will take me there.
On the way one of the world’s orphaned children who have taken up residence in this city asked for my help. Just a sandwich. It was one of those “Buddy can ya spare a dime?” moments. I don’t care if it’s because of a recession, or this man is unwilling or unable to work, or if he is going to use my money for something that gives the “good” people of the world a reason not to love. I’d been asked to give. It’s only three wrinkled dollars (maybe I should buy a wallet), but it all I had. He returned the favor with a grateful and strong hug and assurance that I am loved. Hearing “I love you” from anyone is worth more than my three bucks - but especially one who has been well worn by life.
I left having been embraced by this city and hearing “I love you”. I thought “This is a good conversation.”
After an experience like this I always have more questions. “How do I love these people back”. “How do I embrace the broken without programs and plans or sermons?” I see men, broken by the harsh realities of life. Yet in their brokenness they seem more real than the man emerging in his blue suit from one of the row houses of Astor Place. He seemed more real to me because he has chosen to feel it all. It made him grateful enough for three dollars to gift me an embrace. Maybe it wasn’t the three dollars. Maybe I gave him dignity. That is worthy of love.
“Keep walking” she said again. I was still aiming at the park.
At the arc I took time to reflect. Men were gathered there to dream. The arc speaks of triumph and I am all about listening. This has been a place of life for generations - good life and hard life. Dylan has sang here, Ginsburg and Burroughs were beat here, kids tried stopping wars, and their own pain. Today there are a handful of people broken by their life yet reaching for their humanity. The carry a beauty seldom seen by those who sleep or walk quickly to their responsibilities. One played guitar.
His song says that it’s better to play a guitar than to go to church without a guitar.
Who could possibly argue that? His logic is flawless.
I walked on through, covering paths that reminded me of the last time I was here. Last time everyone was in costume…except me. There is an irony in that. It was the fall of my waking. So much joy and pain, all living in the same space. I remember longing and loneliness. I’ve never hurt that bad. It’s so much easier to live life in costume. People celebrate and take pictures. When we are all in costume we are all safe. The tall man in just a grey hoodie and jeans is wild - and very unsafe. But that man was beginning to live, and feel.
He was raw skin.
What a terrible night. What a wonderful night.
I asked more questions about that. Seasons have passed since then. I need guidance.
“Keep Walking” she said again.
Heading uptown I passed people, gardens, and buildings. I admit to her that I’m scared. I’m scared to go where I want to go and scared to not. My life lives on the other side of this river…it seems so far away.
“Can I stay with you?” I asked. I already knew the answer.
“Keep Walking”
I headed in the direction of the train. Saturday morning on the PATH is a long process. But it’s ok. I realized what the city, (OK, maybe God) was trying to tell me. Life is about walking - even more than it is about arriving. We are always in such a hurry to get to places that we think we need to be or places we think would fulfill us or make us happy or make the pain go away. Even if it is true that those things really will bring us joy and fill us in ways that right now seem out of reach we can’t take shortcuts there. There are things we need to pick up on the way. There are life lessons that are crucial to learn as we walk toward love so that we learn how not to abuse it so that it will last forever. We learn how to breathe on the road. The road is where we learn how to walk, run, love, cry, laugh, and embrace the beautiful and reject that which is not. Our unique path, some more challenging, prepares us for what is ours if we are willing to listen. The walk allows us to love well and be loved as we are finding our way home.
I say to you what I heard from her: “Keep walking”.
1 comment:
Dear Mike,
Somehow, I managed to read your prose version before the poem, but I actually enjoyed the latter more. (Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti would be proud.) It's weird because, as rebellious as poetry is, it's actually the safer way to expose your experiences. (Does that make sense?) Safer might not be the correct word- ambiguous is probably better. It allows your readers to fill in the blanks, while your prose is very specific, and well-written, so that it allows YOU to make sense of your experience, while your readers join you for the ride and, perhaps, relate to you and your experience along the way.
If I were you, I might try more poetry, as I think you're rather good at it, but it all depends on what you're trying to accomplish with your writing.
With that just said, I really enjoyed the paragraph beginning, "On the way..." in your prose because I was curious about this section in the poem. This paragraph, besides being a turning point in your story, says a lot (of positive things) about you as a person, not only because you gave to someone in need, but because you were fearless. It's not as though people don't want to help out those who are homeless and/or impoverished; it's more like people are afraid to do so. It was a bold move, even though it wasn't intended to be. It also seemed to take you in a new direction, with you walking away with more (questions) than you expected. This is more clearly defined in your prose than in your poem, which is probably important.
I would say that your writing here (and throughout your prose) is as bold as your actions, but I'm still partial to the poetry. And, as poetry is as bold a style of writing as you can get, it seems to suit you.
I hope this kind of (literary) feedback is what you had in mind.
Sincerely,
Sam G.
http://jaggedsilvertune.tumblr.com/
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