hello to all that.

Messy mishmoshed montage on another word that starts with M

I had one class with her, “American Woman Writers.” I’m not sure that I ever even spoke to her more than twice, but she had long hair and bright eyes, and the kind of gait and long skirts and ideas that invite. That spring I went to New Orleans to visit the sisterbear, and there she was, we passed wordless on the street. A half second too long to be strangers, too short to turn my sudden awe into hello. Three years later I walk through Union Square and she passes, unmistakable. We both see eachother this time, and I try to collect myself from my sip of cider and post-run tangle of sweat and frizz enough to say “Hey!” She returns it, and in her smile there is warmth, and less surprise than my own. There is something like knowing. Her name is Esperanza, hope, and this is no coincidence.


I make my maiden voyage to Baked after making their spicy brownies (via Smitten Kitch), over-chipotle powdering them and crying over this because it was finals week, and yeah–need I say more? and re-making a correct batch to stellar results. I set my sights on Red Hook, and on Baked, soon after moving and after the action-packed day off I’d hoped for gets whittled away by delays and waiting and Life, Lauren, Francisco and I finally end up there just before closing. I soak up the adorableness, the being-here, the baller pumpkin whoopee pie and salty brownie and coffee. But on our way out I stop, gasp:

These are my plates, the plates. I selected them carefully from a little sale display at Room, doubtless the only thing I could afford in the entire store. It was the end of the summer right before junior year, when I would move off campus. You need mugs in a dorm, tumblers that will crust over and get recycled come August. A set of plates from a local store, designed by SCAD students in coordinating, but not matchy matchy patterns that are square and unique and dare I say “innovayytive”? Those go in a house. I bought the small orange and green one, and went back before senior year for the larger orange one on the bottom (and another green, not pictured.) I have never even seen a suggestion of them anywhere else, ever. As I look around, flailing and camera phoning and unable to say little more than “The PLATES! Lauren! Our house!” at this point, I realize the whole motif of the bakery is designed around them, around the deer silhouette.

They’re plates, I realize. Plates. But out of all the plates and the paths and the hours and the clicks and the choices and the months and the cities and the boroughs, I ended up here. Standing in a space designed around an object which had become a small, important part of a life I was slowly building, in part for and by myself. “Out of all the–!” I said it into the walls, into the cold snap of air back in the street, but I couldn’t even. I was breathless and beating with it; the lightness, the weight.


After yoga one night I sit next to fellow mat-carrier while waiting for the L. “Did you have a good practice?” he asks. He smiles and we both read our books–both red– and get on the train. We sit across from each other and I fumble to turn pages and hide my stares. When I get off, I look down to meet his own upward half-smile, both red. In them there is no possibility, but there is magic in the meeting.


It’s one of the coldest nights of the winter so far, and I’ve somehow forced myself out the door and on to the McCarren track. I was expecting a smaller crowd, sure, but tonight the park is barren. Until a few bundled up and brave dog walkers join me, I am the lone person on the track, period. I’m listening to Regina’s “Far” and nothing but, and as long as I keep going, around and around and around, I don’t get freaked out by this, and don’t notice the hiss of my breath in the icy wind. It’s one of those runs, common to a crude and heartening and familiar cycle. Whole days can stretch into one fog. I wear and eat the same things, do not read or write or run enough and all is as finite and unmovable like the very limits of my body have grown tired of their daily reach and fingertips and eyes and nose retreat back, into a coiled dark, big as the world. A customer says “how are things?” at the exact, right moment. A card from Sarah comes in the mail. I connect with somebody–a loved-somebody, anybody–and they get it. I put on my sneakers and remember again (and again, and again, again) that I love. To. Run. Remember It. And so I work my way back. I’m getting there tonight with every stride, and my right foot hits the ground right on top of a small white square. I pick it up to find it’s a tea bag tag, inscribed with a quote, as seems to be their wont lately (much to my delight–two for you Yogi tea). “And what he greatly thought, he nobly dared—Homer” I have embarrassingly read not a lick of Homer. But “great thoughts” play out like daydreams on my runs, and live there a little too comfortably, a light that wanes.

I love this city for its contradictions, for what one block gives and one corner takes each day. This may be the only way I can live, right now. There is still so much I haven’t yet dared. In between the long gazes, the dark places, there is possibility; magic in the meeting.