I’ve been telling myself the same story this whole time, more than two months now. I’m okay. Better off than most, even. I have my family and a fresh stack of unread books. I do well with alone time, being extremely introverted. I’m also something of a homebody, despite where I’ve chosen to live. And my culinary output has been steady—usually a good indicator that I’m doing well. Though the balance between fresh, green things and baked goods is starting to tip toward the latter.
I’m okay. That mantra’s getting more strained by the day.
The the days are warming up now, finally. It’s been an unusually cold Spring, which hasn’t mattered much considering. But Memorial Day will hit 70 degrees, and I’m looking forward to it. On Thursday, it was 67 degrees and sunny with the type of sky that reminded me of Los Angeles—bright, unwaveringly cerulean. I stood outside in our little backyard (the benefit to having a first-floor apartment) and listened to the breeze find its way through trees and phone lines and apartment buildings. Air meet skin. It’s been awhile.
What is it about warmer days, of direct sunlight on bare skin? It stirs desire, restlessness. It’s that familiar rhythm of the school year, maybe. The promise of freedom and friends, of pleasant exhaustion and bare feet worn soft from long days outside. I’ve been trying to live in the present, and not make myself vulnerable to nostalgia. Perhaps gray, damp days make that endeavor a little easier. Now, I stand in the golden-yellow strips of sunlight coming through my back door and long for things.
So I scribbled them down, pen-to-paper without stopping, just to clear my head: the writing equivalent of a good, long jog. I’m still okay. But there’s a lot I miss, it turns out. In no particular order:
The beach. Bracing myself on the shoreline, waiting for the cold slap of salty waves against my legs and torso, feeling their gentle push-pull hours later, as I fall asleep that night.
Deep breaths—the kind that remind you of your lungs and their capacity and how nice and necessary it feels to fill them up with oxygen—and not being afraid to take them in public, around other people.
Finding solitude in a crowd. Sharing something with hundreds of people while remaining anonymous, like a Broadway show, lunch in the park on a warm day, standing in line for bagels, even waiting at a crosswalk.
Working out with other people: Packed, sweaty studios, the solidarity that comes with a little low-key suffering and the collective sigh of both relief and humility that happens after a really difficult set.
The confusing-yet-stunning acoustics of the subway. I’ll never understand why I can hear the busker playing electric violin from three platforms up but not the conversation of the people standing way too close to me. But I miss those free, spontaneous concerts, amplified by the cavernous maze of tile and concrete and metal.
Spontaneity. Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, getting hungry, and remembering that Julianna’s is right there for pizza. Running into a friend at coffee. Finishing work at the same time as Adam and meeting between our offices for dinner.
And also this: a difficult phenomenon to explain, but expertly articulated by Man Repeller (per usual). I never thought I’d feel or say something like this, but here we are.
