Friday and the news is ever dire.
In one night, the death toll climbs to 100.
People respond with care. Many not so much.
Judging proves fruitless.
Taking in the sun and taking in the view. A car pulls up
an exchange is made.
Anxieties slip away like
so many droplets hitching a ride on an innocent breath.
Liquor stores are essential in a plagued economy
And my son texts,
People gotta stay medicated.
Oh, the irony.
This past October, I answered a call to adventure and moved from Maine to NYC to experience the dizzying din of a city that never sleeps. Four months into it, all the enticements that drew me here have been shut down, and I’ve been put to bed without my supper. Along with the city’s other 8.5 million residents, I’ve been asked to stay home, avoid crowds, and practice self distancing.
I was, initially, peeved.
I am now working to suck it up, to surrender.
Up until a week ago, I’ve had a rather cavalier attitude about going out in the city. Having traveled by subway both ways with stops at Grand Central, I attended a Broadway show matinee, and the next day the blackout was announced. Now the only show in town is the real Theater of the Absurd we are living.
Shortly after, the mayor declared a state of emergency and banned large gatherings. But it wasn’t until I had a conversation with my 30 year-old son sitting on the stoop at his apartment that the seriousness of it hit me.
Not feeling well the night before, he and his girlfriend decided to self quarantine. After our initial no-touch greeting, he reassured me they were feeling much better. And then he looked directly into my eyes. Because there is no one whose opinion I value more, or whose gentle criticisms of me I intently listen to and take to heart, I knew what he was going to say was important: “Mom, you need to be more careful. I want you to be safe.”
Apparently, I’m not the only parent getting this kind advice. Later on Facebook, I read a post from a friend from Maine who asked if anyone else’s millennial son or daughter had sat them down and explained how serious the situation was. My friend’s daughter had contacted her from Brooklyn alerting her to what was potentially coming. I also heard from a sister in Maine whose son and daughter chided both of them about their plans to attend a play. Their father has suffered two heart attacks and currently has a stent in place.
Things are getting real.
We all need to be careful including young people who naturally feel invincible. There are those who avoid large public gatherings and work from home by day and avoid the customary night life, and others who throw caution to the wind and risk spreading this invisible infection and insist on going out. It was just a week ago that I walked home and looked across the street into the open door of a popular watering hole that was filled with young people. The business didn’t look to be running at half capacity allowing for safe distancing as suggested. Patrons didn’t seem to be taking the necessary cautions either.
That has since changed.
I can’t just blame this behavior on the young people who are a lower risk. I’m healthy, take no medications, and have no medical conditions. Until recently, I’ve displayed hubris taking more chances then I should even though people in my age group have been issued guidance by the federal government how to stay safe.
So I’ve decided to become more conscious and regularly monitor my attitude. I accept that this is my NYC experience, and I am grateful to be here near my son. I will take better care not only of myself but also my fellow man because we are all in this together.
When I was called to this adventure, I knew there were bound to be risks, uncertainties, and trials along the way. I had no idea the extent to which I’d be tested.
I will practice taking one day at a time. Because:
This was not what I had planned.
This is pretty absurd.
To quote Camus: “To embrace the absurd implies embracing all that the unreasonable world has to offer.”
It’s the season of Art Shows in NYC right now, and the title Spring/Break certainly heralds a dizzying collection of art including installation, interactive, and video work from about 130 international curators. The show is housed in unused, unusual, and sometimes historic buildings in the city at no cost to exhibitors.
In its ninth year to NYC, the show is located on the 11th and 12th floors (formerly leased to Ralph Lauren, I was told) at the Atlantic Production Center, 625 Madison Avenue. This year’s theme is “In Excess.”
Two of artist David Frye’s acrylic paintings.
Chatting it up with the curators and artists is the best part. The Spring/Break show is new to me, so I asked lots of questions. For instance, What is an independent curator? I arrived at booth 1036 on the 10th floor and spoke to Mary Gagler who was representing artist David Frye and his “Golden Calf” acrylic paintings in sculptural frames (above). They had painted their small space in a dramatic red color to look like paneling.
She explained that independent curators might own a gallery, work for a gallery or non profit, or free lance. Curators (many of them were also artists showing their work) act as a kind of jack-of all-trades marketing reps.
Many exhibitors got quite elaborate with the design of their space. Curator Lauren Hirshfield recreated a small dining room to showcase her artist’s porcelain ceramics, but the pieces were simply glazed, and though beautiful, got lost in the presentation.
These ceramic pieces got lost in the presentation!
Curator and artist Jeila Gueramian had just one day to install her huge, plush, crochet/ sculptural pieces that overflowed beyond her space into the elevator hallway. Fortunately, she has her daughter to help during the week.
Close up of one of Jelia’s huge installations. Lots of crochet.
On my way up to the show in the elevator, a young woman exclaimed, “You gotta check out the artist known as Super Future Kid (Steffi Homa)! I did. And entered a real gingerbread house comprised of 2500 pounds of salt and gallons of pastel paint replete with toad stools and a foot bridge over a stream of pink water and paintings of colorful, cartoonish creatures.
One of my favorite pieces was a huge ( 90 x 120 inches) installation entitled “Unfolding,” by artists Ori Carino and Lee Quinones. It consisted of two layers of stretched silk with spray paint, airbrush, and acrylic paint. Illuminated from behind, it was stunning.
“Unfolding” Spray paint, airbrush, acrylic paint on synthetic silk.
Many of the artists have sold work. Scooter LaForge’s beastly banquet table of hand glazed/fired commercial dinner plates with gold inlay were selling well at $500 a piece. Entitled, “Please Don’t Eat The Animals,” you were asked to “Gorge yourself on the excesses of humanity’s cruelty to animals.” I have vegan friends who would approve.
Please Don’t Feed the Animals!
Before I realized it, I had already spent two and a half hours and never even left the 10th floor. I ran in to three new friends who had just arrived, and after a brief hello, made my way to the 11th floor to squeeze in a quick walk around as sensory overload had taken over, and I just couldn’t ingest another visual bite.
The show runs from March 3rd to the 9th.
(But I have to get in one more.)
Krista Klingbeil uses a pastry bag to pipe in silica paste on the surfaces of her paintings.
We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us. Follow your bliss, and the universe will open doors where there were only walls. Joseph Campbell.
A trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the exhibition, The Last Knight: The Art, Armor,and Ambition of Maximilian I before it closed, happened to coincide with rereading a couple of inspiring books, The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers, and Do the Work, by Steven Pressfield. Together they inspire a call to action: create a new vision of the future, embark on a quest, slay the dragon of resistance to bring it to fruition.
His horse couldn’t be lacking in sumptuous adornment. A similar Bard (body armor for war horses) was presented by Maximilian I to Henry VIII.
Campbell’s quote could apply to Maximilian I. Although he was the son of a Holy Roman Emperor, he got little kingly guidance at home. He realized his own “unique potentiality for experience” and created a vision of what constituted a great ruler. With little money, land, prestige, or political clout, he forged a new identity with a marriage to Marie of Burgundy, a full-on propaganda campaign, crafted armor befitting the gods, and dazzling jousting tournaments. In today’s lingo, he knew how to create a brand.
His alliances and military strategies earned him the title of one of the most powerful leaders in European history and probably the label “hero.” I imagine him, with the flick of his fingers, casting off the past and then plunging himself headlong into an uncertain future.
According to Campbell, most hero stories are about the young–finding themselves confronting the unknown in a place, a forest perhaps. The hero embarks on this journey and must leave dependency and immaturity behind and then find the passion and courage deep within to overcome many trials. If she or he is strong enough, the end result and revelations learned along the way will bring the hero to a richer and mature new life, a new consciousness– a mythological death and a rebirth.
But a hero’s quest isn’t just for the young!
Ceremonial Armor of Charles V, grandson of Maximilian I and future Emperor. The cost of this armor would be equal to the price of a Manhattan townhouse in today’s market. Original photo
A hero’s journey is exactly what we need in the later stages of our lives. To look inward, To be reborn. To save ourselves.
When we’re older, past childbearing/ child rearing years, or in retirement, we can find ourselves suddenly lost too, wondering what it all means? Our trials are different– lost youth, declining bodily functions, confronting mortality (technology!)–but no less difficult. Shouldn’t we to go forth and participate in life with as much courage and vitality as we did when we were young?
I think so. We Boomers are leading the way.
Now that we’re living longer we have another chance to take this adventure. Maybe it’s finally taking a cross-country trip, committing to a healthy life style, writing that book, or starting that business venture. You don’t have to go far or put yourself in much danger. But you do have to get out of your comfort zone.
Getting started and staying the course is the hard part. In his book Do The Work, Steven Pressfield puts is this way:
On a field of the Self stand a knight and a dragon. You are the knight. Resistance is the dragon.
Resistance will probably be the greatest trial, and some of the “greatest hits” that elicit the dragon of resistance according to Pressfield are any creative art, any course or program designed to overcome a bad habit or addiction, education of any kind, any act that entails commitment of the heart. In essence, “any act that derives from our higher nature instead of our lower.”
Pressfield says we can use resistance as a compass.
Rule of thumb: “The more important a call or action is to our soul’s evolution, the more Resistance we will feel towards pursuing it.”
Next to resistance, Pressfield, goes on to say, “…rational thought is the soul’s worst enemy. “Bad things happen when we employ rational thought, because rational thought comes from the ego.” Rational thought or the ego will find a multitude of reasons why this adventure is a bad idea. It wants to play it safe, quell those fears that arise. What’s the solution?
Instead, we want to work from the Self, that is, from instinct and intuition, from the unconscious.
Working from the self requires spending some quiet time away from social media, texting, anything that constantly grabs our attention. Long walks, keeping a journal, enjoying nature, prayer/meditation help to cultivate intuition and shed light on the unconscious. These are simple undertakings, yet they require the most effort. But what a thrill it will be to live a second self– a new version of you.
Steel Gloves–Gauntlets– of Maximilian I. These give new meaning to the expression: Throwing down the Gauntlet. Original photo
Joseph Campbell coined the phrase follow your bliss. He affirmed living life as an adventure.
What each must seek in his life never was on land or sea. It is something out of his own unique potentiality for experience, something that never has been and never could have been experienced by anyone else.
So, throw down the gauntlet.
And with your higher self, pick it up.
Embrace the challenge.
New York City is still a mecca for artists the world over, and the neighborhood of Chelsea, home to hundreds of galleries, is often hailed as one of the city’s most important and influential art districts.
One of the many exciting things about living here is being exposed to all this stimulating creativity and attending art openings. What’s even more exciting is when the one-woman show at the Sears Peyton Gallery, in Chelsea, belongs to a childhood friend who grew up in Hallowell, Maine, and graduated from the Maine College of Art.
Early Morning, oil on panel 20x 20 inches.
Between the Trees, oil on panel, 27×27 inches.
Along with a festive and colorful crowd, I was able to celebrate, Poogy Bjerklie, The In-Between, her second exhibition with the gallery. Described as “…landscape paintings, rendered both intimate and anonymous, imagined and reimagined, on dreamy, luscious surfaces,” I would add that her work has an old world, other worldly quality, which draws you in to reflect on happy childhood memories playing outdoors hoping for talking animals and fairy sightings. Her paintings evoke a response.
Poogy and husband, John opening night..
An art patron at the opening. Love the coat.
Poogy’s story is interesting. After graduating from Maine College of Art, where she met her husband, John, she somewhat reluctantly agreed to move to Brooklyn. Back in the 90’s, they rented a huge apartment that included studio space in what was then an AIR (Artist in Residence) building, which housed about 13 other artists.
At the time, Poogy was creating hand-painted clothing in addition to oil paintings. It was common back then for landlords to ask tenants to hold open studio weekends to showcase their art. Many artists became suspicious because more and more, landlords saw this as an opportunity for real estate developers to have easy access to view the entire building and then make an offer on the property. This wasn’t the case with her landlord.
Not wanting people traipsing through her space, she reluctantly agreed, and, instead, built a temporary wall about four feet into her studio that prevented the public not only passage into her work area but also her living space. She painted and distressed the wall a rich bronze color that captured the light and beautifully enhanced seven small paintings.
Her display caught the eye of one woman in particular during the event. After admiring Poogy’s work, she bought one painting and announced, “I’m scheduling a one person show of your work in October.” This patron happened to represent the Phatory, an East Village art gallery, still open today, specializing in contemporary art.
Every painting sold.
The rest is history.
In 2018, The Maine Museum of Art located in Bangor, part of the University of Maine, Orono, selected Poogy to exhibit her work entitled, Poogy Bjerklie, Nowhere in Particular, at one of its five separate exhibition spaces. The Museum had found her through the Sears Peyton Gallery and had been looking at her work over the years. Oddly enough, they didn’t realize at the time she was a Maine native.
Her work was displayed at the museum from January 12–May 5, 2018. Typically, artists don’t usually sell paintings at museum shows, but as luck, or should I say, talent would have it, Poogy sold four paintings to one collector.
Distant Mountains, oil on paper mounted on wood 11 1/4 x 11 1/4.
Proud moment with a dear friend at her solo show.
While New York City (Queens to be exact) continues to be her primary residence, she still owns seasonal lake property in Maine where she draws inspiration from its natural beauty like so many artists before her. In fact most, if not all, her pieces in this current show were done in Maine this summer.
What makes this a particularly significant event for Poogy is that the year 2020 is proving to be an exciting time for women in the arts as museums everywhere are focusing requisitions and programming on long, underappreciated female artists.The Baltimore Museum of Art has even dedicated all its 2020 programs and exhibitions to women. There couldn’t be a better time to be recognized with a solo show.
Her journey from small town Maine to New York City and having gained entree into its high velocity art scene is notable. Surrounded by lush and graceful paintings representing years of hard work and well honed talent was profound. The vitality and enthusiasm in the room opening night was palpable.
It is inspiring to see an artist still opening her heart–still following her bliss.
I’m not Ubering around here.
What I am doing is trying to master NYC mass transit. Like Luke Skywalker, introduced to the ways of the Jedi, I’ve got it in my head this self imposed, home schooled education will earn me my way to the title of Resident New Yorker.
Each trip is a revelation about living here… and a revelation about my 66 year-young- self. I’ve been venturing out of my Brooklyn neighborhood to other locations in Manhattan on a regular basis, sometimes during the comfort of daylight other times under the cover of darkness and long shadows late at night (well, 11:00PM is late for me).
The NYC subway car is a microcosm of the world young and old, rich and poor, fresh and scrubbed, ripe and unwashed, from far and away, born and raised, unpretentious, ultra glamorous, inconspicuous, and ostentatious, blowzy, mangy, kind, and surly. Thrown together hurly-burly.
Often times, uncomfortably, up close and personal.
On an 8:00AM rush hour car, I find myself crammed like cattle nose to cheek, desperately seeking not only something solid to grip but also a place to rest my eyes. For some insane reason, people do not, “Stand clear of closing doors,” and move to the center of the car where lucky patrons enjoy ample room. NOooo. Everyone prefers to keep their back-packs on and inflict pain on each other squeezing in near the exits. And people put up with it! Occasionally the herd isn’t so docile, and an angry bellow, “MOVE!” causes a seismic shift.
It pays to have both a sense of humor and sense of the ridiculous. I choose viewing this situation through a playful lens. It’s fascinating. Each ride unique.
And then it’s not so amusing. Some poor, afflicted creature displaying an I’m-off-my-meds-I’m-high behavior sends a slight ripple of unease through the air. I witness a young guy in army green, ear phones plugged in, pacing back and forth the entire length of the car, weaving around the poles, arms flailing playing air guitar. We ride four stops this way until other passengers board and fill the space.
There’s often good entertainment while catching a connecting train.
Sometimes you get a double feature. A hopeful singer looking to raise money for recording fees bursts into song with finesse and surprising range. Time stands still, and for a few moments there’s a unified field of good will, dollars collected. Panhandlers of every design, too, share this captive audience. This one, a mountain of a man, bearded with long dark hair, wearing a DIY muumuu from what appears to be a bed sheet. He eventually shuffles along.
But wait….amazingly, chivalry is alive and well. Standing in a crowded train, I feel a slight tug on my coat sleeve. As I look down into the face of an earnest young man, he silently gestures to me to take his seat. On the one hand, I groan inwardly thinking, do I look that old? But on the other hand, I think, how can I refuse such a courtly gesture? It’s obvious he loves his Momma, and she’d be proud of this outward show of manners.
The Q train at East 72nd Street, Manhattan. So this is how the other half lives.
These subway, mini-adventures have made me realize that we sacrifice a lot of living today for the comforts of convenience. Our lives have become so busy and outwardly projected, heads down, eyes to phones, that we no longer really see each other and lose those fleeting, often joyous moments of connection with total strangers reminding us that in the end, we’re all just trying to make it through the night.
Of course, at some point, I’ll dial up an Uber.
In the meantime, I’ll enjoy commiserating and communing on the subway with my “Human Family.” Maya Angelou expressed it poignantly in her like-named poem:
I note the obvious difference
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike my friends,
than we are unalike.
As we get older, we tend to like coming home and sleeping in the security of our own, comfy cocoons. I figure in the last five weeks, I’ve had to sleep in ten strange beds, and variations of beds, (alone) in a variety of different places. No easy feat for a boomer since getting enough shut eye is essential to our well being. And let’s face it. A good night’s sleep is harder to get than… a seat on the G train at rush hour. Like the princess and the pea, I’ve had to stay honest and true to myself by suffering some minor inconveniences like this.
But stepping out of my comfort zone is a constant requirement, and everything is just more strenuous here. For example, moving into my place took a Herculean effort. I had to GPS it from Irvington to Brooklyn in gridlock, hope for a place to park without parking restrictions close to my building, and then make eight (I counted) trips that consisted of : a) unloading an item; b) locking my car; c) carrying heavy item about 200 feet; d) use other set of keys to unlock outside door; e) cart my heavy bag/ plastic tub up two flights of stairs; e) unlock apartment door; f) drop the stuff off; g) lock the door; h) head back down to the car; i) unlock the car; j) …w,x,y,z; REPEAT. Like Sisyphus rolling his rock up the hill, I have my Camu moments of thinking this undertaking is absurd, but they evaporate and the excitement returns.
Heading home from the G train.
Still… unconscious fears lurk below the surface.
During my first week in the apartment, on the night of the full moon, (December 12th at 12:00PM) I had a vivid dream of being pursued by a crazed and unruly rabble, fueled on alcohol, since I had the distinct feeling that all sense of reason was gone. And what really ratcheted things up was that everyone was naked. It reminded me of a funeral march of Jacques during the French Revolution, in a scene from Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities that suddenly turns in to a bloodthirsty, murderous mob.
Chased from one place to another, I was trying to out run them. But I was getting more and more tired, and there were fewer and fewer places to hide. Although quite terrifying, I managed to out maneuver them each time, and in my gut, I felt I was going to be OK. But the question remained: How long was I able to keep this up?
In trying to analyze this, I figured it was about raw, animal fear. Was I able to survive in this jungle of a city? After all, I am kinda high on the food chain as vulnerable, older prey. Will I be taken down, or can I keep up–out run its perils and survive? I have to keep my wits about me and stay present.
And yet, it’s all part of the adventure. The good and the bad. Time slows down when you find yourself in a new environment, and you’re much more present. Meditating helps foster this too.
The young woman I’m subleasing from has left a pretty good library of books. I’ve just finished Joan Didion’s memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, which explores the author’s grief following the sudden death of her husband of forty years. It begins with these lines:
Life changes fast.
Life changes in the instant.
You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.
The question of self-pity.
Sobering to read at our age as we tend to bump up against death more and more in the guise of friends and family members dying too soon, and we see, too, our own mortality reflected in death’s face.
And then, interestingly enough, I followed up with The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers. It’s a wonderful discussion of mythology and what myths can tell us about our own lives. When I came upon this passage, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I had a very visceral response:
People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances within our own inner most being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.
Enjoying the first night in my new home, I was sitting quietly waiting for my roommate to come home. Somewhat intoxicated with a feeling of bliss (and the pungent smell of pot that often wafts through the building) I suddenly heard from somewhere above the vibrato trills of a beautiful soprano voice practicing scales.
WHOA….
I gotta admit. I’m feeling the rapture from time to time.
Ginger lives happily at Jerannie Deli Grocery on the corner of Clifton Place and Nostrand Ave.
Fresh greens for the holidays.
On a recent visit from Irvington to Brooklyn, my brother took my sister aside, and, out of ear shot from me, told her with pity saturating his voice that I wasn’t likely to find a room to rent. My prospects were probably nil. Early on I had contacted a high school friend who has been living in Brooklyn since college and told her I was looking for a place. Her response was something to the effect that people looking for rooms were young people.
I have to admit it did seem daunting. Brooklyn has gentrified and is gentrifying still, drawing young professionals from Manhattan to its more friendly, quaint neighborhoods. On numerous times in the past, while out to dinner with my son, I’ve looked around at a sea of Forever 21- fresh faces and wondered if I could blend in without having, what I perceived to be an arrow pointing down at my head reading, “Mom’s in town visiting.”
With some trepidation, I stuck my big toe in to the Roomi app and the Listing Project website, looked around, and then dove in head first and fired off some emails.
Listing Project was recommended to me by a friend’s daughter who lives in Brooklyn. It’s a no fee, curated (no brokers or third party services) weekly email that caters to artists and other creative (that word again) types searching for everything from studio space to sublets and long term rentals. The lister posts pictures, price, location, particulars, and info about him or herself. On average, I found ages to be between 28 and 40. Oh dear.
Two postings looked promising–the first advertised two professional women in their 30s looking for someone respectful, neat, who wanted a safe haven to come home to. The other caught my eye–two gay comedians. Maybe they’d be more forgiving? My moving in might provide them with some good material for future acts: The Golden Girl(s) meets Will & Grace?
Zilp zip, nada!
I soldiered on.
No response.
I tried the Roomi app and finally heard from a woman who appeared to be in her 50s. The location was perfect but upon arriving the building looked like a fire trap. I followed Maria (names have been changed to protect the innocent) down a very narrow hallway hotter than Hades reeking of cat pee, to a small room still overflowing with the 20- something- tenant’s eerily childish belongings. Pictures are deceiving. My other roommate would be a young man who just immigrated from South America. I liked Maria very much. She had come from Brazil fifteen years ago and was supporting a mother with Alzheimer’s back home. But this is what you get for $1200. a month?!
I enjoyed meeting Maria, but I couldn’t see myself living here.
I did hear from a woman my age who contacted me about a room, but she mentioned it was way out in City Island and, “You’d never know you were in NYC.” Isn’t that the whole point? It was nice to be contacted though.
I persevered, dispelled negative thoughts when they arose, and meditated on exactly what I wanted to manifest.
Next, I heard back from a Listing Project prospect, a psychoanalyst and English Lit professor at CUNY, who was “open to all.” I had no idea how old the person was or what gender, but on a cold windy evening, I was warmly greeted by a young, good -looking guy in a white button down shirt and khakis–early 30s maybe–originally from Vermont. When I stated that I was surprised he answered my email (I could hear my son scolding me, “Stop saying that!”), Monroe replied, “Why? I think what you’re doing is cool.” He told me his mom was relocating to Ireland, and that her fiance was from Camden, Maine. The place wasn’t furnished and he wanted me to split a broker’s fee, so it didn’t work out. But, WOW, I was encouraged. I recall Sally Field’s Oscar win response, “You like me. You really like me!
Shortly after I heard back from three more young listers who were interested. I met Jen and Jeremy a couple in their 30s who advertised, “We love green spaces, outdoor activities, radical ideas, and non violent communication. Communal living a plus.” O.k.a.y….? Maybe they’re communists?
He actually was a former professional cyclist who now manages a bike shop in Manhattan, and she works in early childhood art education and is studying herbology. Jen’s mom was visiting from Texas when I showed up. Did I detect a smirk? I wondered what she thought of me as a possible roommate. Again, just the sweetest people, but the place was tiny and living with a couple might be a tad too close. Besides, the next morning I was meeting a young woman to see what might be the perfect place.
I had arranged to meet Kim at 11:00 at her apartment only two blocks from my son and brother’s place. Kim is a 32 year- old freelance art director “who likes to illustrate and make puppets on the side” and shares an apartment with only one other roommate and was subleasing her furnished bedroom AND WORKROOM/STUDIO for nine months to attend to a family matter back home in Texas. We had, what I felt was an instant rapport, the place was perfect and in my price range, utilities included. Her roommate was also 32, an archivist for a non profit and described as very laid back and considerate. Since she wasn’t around, we could FaceTime later if I was chosen. Kim was bombarded with emails to see the place, and she would make a decision the next day. I left a little hopeful...something just felt right.
On pins and needles the following day, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer and texted Kim late in the afternoon. When she texted back and asked if I minded if some tenants in the building smoked pot (hell no), I knew I had the place!
My building in Bed Stuy.
And so it goes.
I believe I really did manifest the perfect situation–one roommate and studio space to boot! Unheard of in these parts.
What I find most amazing is how welcoming and open minded these young people are. This experience reinforces that old thinking based on experiences from the past begets the same old future. The science of neuroplasticity says that the nervous system has the capacity to create new neural pathways and connections–we can retrain our brains and thinking –to create a vision of the future we want. Maybe ageism is something we perpetuate?
Recently that same Brooklyn brother took me aside at another gathering and stated that he secretly didn’t think I was going to be able to make the big move. He told me that he was really impressed I had made it happen.
I continue to be blown away. I am incredibly happy. What can I manifest next?
With its many amenities and progressive vibe, Irvington, home to legendary Washington Irving, is the kind of friendly place Millennials want to move to after a stint in the City and babies start arriving. My sister and her family moved to the village center over twenty years ago because of great public schools and an easy commute to Manhattan (36 to 55 minutes) on Metro North Railroad’s Hudson line. An almost empty-nester, she’s given me a place to stay (I’ve been as helpful as I can possibly be) while looking for a room to rent in Brooklyn.
Irvington has attracted industry big names and celebrities alike. The first African American woman millionaire, Madam C.J. Walker, made her fortune creating a hair straightening formula. Eileen Fisher has her corporate headquarters here, along with a retail shop and second hand outlet. I recently passed Meredith Vieira on a walk in the woods, and Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones are the newest neighbors.
While Irvington has its mansions and tony neighborhoods, it does offer condominiums, cooperative apartments, rental units, and some affordable housing. Taxes are high, then again, garbage pick up each week is Monday, Thursday, and recycling Wednesday.
I feel like I’ve been on vacation as my days include reading the New York Times each morning starting with the Arts and Business sections, taking long walks on the Old Croton Aqueduct Trail, walking the dog, Cactus, in the 400-acre Irvington Woods, and enjoying train excursions to Manhattan. Irvington is a little bit country and a little bit rock ‘n’ roll 19 miles away.
Old Croton Aqueduct Trail
One of my favorite houses on the trail.
Another view on the Croton Aqueduct trail. I love trees, even more so since reading “The Overstory.”
I so love the train! Riding off-peak is $19.50 round trip. In less than an hour, Metro North deposits you in the magical world of Grand Central, and you are swept along with the tides of humanity to all the dizzying din that is NYC. This apt quote by Charles Baudelaire captures it: “What strange phenomena we find in a great city. All we need do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters.” Check out on Instagram, Subway Creatures.
I recently met up with a friend from Maine who was baby sitting her grand child in Manhattan. When I explained taking the subway and locating her address, she responded, “Wow, I don’t know how to do that.” Another recent field trip was to“The Whitney”, The High Line, and a new Swedish Bakery Fabrique, that boasts the best, ever, cardamon Rolls. I’m getting around.
Best of all, I qualify for senior discount MTA subway and buss fares! A single ride is $2.75: senior, $1.35; A 30-day unlimited pass is $127.00 a month: Senior, $63.50; A 7-day unlimited pass is $33.00: senior, $16.50 Something to be grateful for (I list them daily) in this youth-obsessed culture.
How lucky am I to be living again with one of my siblings at this age! We’ve been able to support each other during times of big change for us both. After being the sole occupant of my home for so long, I’m really enjoying sharing my space. I even think I said a few years ago, I’m kinda tired of living alone.
Well, this will sorely be tested as I try to find a room to rent in the city and live again with a roommate, more likely roommates, after 40 years. It would be so easy to just pay rent here with my sister, but I know deep in my heart, I’d disappoint myself. So… this begs the question:
Can a woman my age find a room to rent in the fresh, young, cutting edge world of Brooklyn?
The answer will surprise you.
My nine month sojourn traveling solo Down Under almost four years ago did change me. Although I have enjoyed being home again in Maine for a couple of years, it’s difficult to return home after a long time because I can’t go home and be the person I was. There’s been a change. Another adventure has been beckoning. This time to New York City… a place many consider the greatest city in the world!
How this all came about started with an article about the twenty-fifth anniversary of Julia Cameron’s book, “The Artist’s Way.” Billed as “Discovering and Recovering your Creative Self,” it has sold over four million copies since its publication, and advocates writing free form in longhand three pages each morning, and taking yourself out once a week on an artist date. Doing the morning pages first thing, allows you to dump any negative monkey mind thinking clogging up your brain and be more open (mindful) to being creative–a buzzword that seems to be every where in today’s market/workplace.
I had completed the eight week course a couple of times in the past, and in February found a box of books, including ‘The Artist’s Way” and a binder of morning pages I’d written before making my solo trip, which wasn’t even on my radar at the time. I took this as a sign (synchronicity) and wrote the pages again. My practice also included meditation, and, low and behold, the winds of change swept me up again. Before I knew what I was doing, I had my house rented… to the perfect couple (he’s from New Zealand). Just like before, everything seems to be falling into place.
New York City is a different animal. A beast of many wiles with an insatiable appetite for culture, fashion, entertainment, celebrity, and fabulous food. It has to be tamed or its sharp claws will slice into your pockets and leave you destitute. But it also has an infectious energy that lures you in. And finding an apartment! My brother jokingly said recently he had to get married to find a place.
That younger brother has been in NYC since the late 80s and was smart to buy a place in Brooklyn in 2001. The house was in a seedy, dangerous neighborhood with burned out buildings around the corner and across the street (and always a place to park). It is now hip and gentrified (and hard to park) and a great investment. My son, a Pratt Institute grad, rents from him, but no room in the inn for me. Fortunately, a sister lives a 50- minute- Metro North train ride away in the lovely village of Irvington, on the Hudson. I have a soft place to fall. And Costco is nearby!
I’m living out of my car again with the basics I think I’ll need. Renting my home and moving again has been stressful, but I’ve become a minimalist and that has alleviated some of the pain.
I’ve sworn this is the last time I’ll do this.
But then again… Asheville, NC, sounds nice.
It's a 60s Thing...Taking a Gap Year in NYC. 