Glimpses. This morning in this room.

This Morning, No 89.

Taken in the fall.

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I wake, running.

I try to leave my phone on the kitchen table, so as to not bring its dense energy into the bedroom, but I still need to use the alarm. So, I wake rushing towards it, to subdue the clanging. Sockless toes on kitchen tile. Flip the kettle switch and get back in bed to look at the maple blossoms until the water has boiled. The neon green blossoms outside of our bedroom window confront my existential dread each morning, asserting, is it really that bad out there in the midst of all this new life?

We’re moving apartments, you may know this, so we’re in a liminal space of departure for the next week and a bit. Which means my mornings in this space are coming to an end. The tree out the front arched window has yet to bloom, which is leaving me only a little heartbroken that I won’t see its blossoms framed just that way, ever again.

There is a man who works behind the counter of our subway stop. Around 6:45 in the morning, I open our front window wide and greet the sun. I rest my feet on top of the protruding bay window below and watch as the man makes his way down the hill and underground. He moves slowly, his body is dense, supported by a cane. He doesn’t know that we have this ritual, he doesn’t know that we greet each other each morning.

There is another man who sweeps the street with a broom from his house before anyone is out and about to thank him. This morning, a new man was listening to music from a little speaker. There were very few cars on the street, so as he jay walked across it, he did a little dance, because no one was watching but me.

The sun has just started to hit the couch in the right way, that suffuses both my cat and me in its early morning warmth. To leave that behind will be very hard for us both.

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After work yesterday, I went to watch the sun set on the Hudson River. I sat on the grass in front of a patch of tulips and looked out over the water. This day last week, a helicopter broke apart midair and dropped into the river, killing all on board, directly in front of where I was. At the time, I was rolling ginger pork meatballs between my palms. I didn’t see the moment of impact, but saw just a few minutes after, when all of the emergency boats and vehicles coalesced.

Yesterday, the sun was setting. Women were walking in pairs of two chatting. Dogs. Bouncing ponytails. Moms schlepping. Backpacks. Runners. Heart rates. Air pods. Oversized sweatshirts. Cold, spring earth under my hands. This unraveling world. Who were they, the six that died? I literally know but who were they? How many people passing by know that this happened right here just days ago? To be in a setting that just days ago was the scene of true tragedy and despair, but is now a normal, quintessentially joyful spring evening. Cognitive dissonance. I’m not sure how we’re supposed to handle all of this coinciding undoing, but we are handling it, I guess. Sometimes, I am able to understand or believe that something else is being born out of the chaos, but recently I’ve been feeling beaten down by it all. When I start to feel that way it usually means that I have stopped paying attention to the small pleasure that is my life.

There is a street in Tribeca, on my walk home from work, that sounds like a beach. When the rubber tires of heavy black Escalades rumble over the cobblestones, it sounds like sea water receding back over rounded pebbles. The three lights in front of the building I walk past just before the overpass are shaped like piped meringue dollops.

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In Kabbalah there is a concept that I find perplexing. I think I may not agree with it, or maybe I just don’t fully grasp it. Or maybe I get it but would phrase it differently. It is the need for certainty. As defined by David Ghiyam:

Certainty that everything comes from the creator (god, universe, light, source, whatever you want).

Certainty that everything that comes from the creator is good.

Certainty that everything that comes from the creator is there to help you change, transform and shift your consciousness.

I am feeling more and more certain of my capacity to engage with uncertainty. That there is no real knowing or predicting life, but there is a sense of certainty in your capacity to work with it, moment to moment, to make meaning of experience. My recent comfort with the idea of uncertainty is mostly because - what choice do we have? - and also over the years, I’ve started to trust my own resilience.

I took an online Kabbalah One course, because I’m interested in gaining insight from varied spiritual disciplines. I never set out to commit to one or another, just to learn and to see how they all tend to point towards the same themes. In this course, there was a suggestion that you set multiple alarms a day to remind you of certainty. I set one alarm, labeled it certainty, and turned it off the one time it sounded. You know how alarms can stack up like dishes in a sink? In my sleepiness last night, I set an alarm for this morning, unknowingly re-using the certainty label. This morning, when I woke up running, I ran towards certainty.

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The Current Stack

I am always accompanied by a stack of books. I’ve written about my stack chats before. I like to share what I'm reading because of how much it informs the texture of my thoughts.

Dear Writer

Maggie Smith

I love a writing craft book. I definitely use these types of books to procrastinate actually writing, but I find them so delightful. Since reading You Could Make This Place Beautiful, I’ve been a big fan of the way Smith perceives the world around her.

The Dispossessed

Ursula K. Le Guin

Have just begun this book, after three people recommended it to me simultaneously. Will report back.

Dancing in the Flames: The Dark Goddess in the Transformation of Consciousness

Marion Woodman and Elinor Dickson

I’m returning to this book now to read in a group setting, led by my friend Satya Doyle Byock. Here’s the structure in Satya’s words:

“We will read one chapter a week for six weeks. Each Saturday morning, I’ll share a summary post to support an in-depth reading for the week, including insights into the specific chapter material. As you read, you’re encouraged to share questions and thoughts in the comments on that post to discuss with others!

We’ll also meet twice for live, 90-minute discussions of the chapters we’ve read so far. (Recordings will be available to those who can’t attend live.)”

This text is very supportive for navigating this moment in our collective history.