Restoration

My friend Janice drove into the city and we met up at the Arthouse Bar to sip margaritas in the balmy New York night and catch up on our lives. That was our sidewalk view. We had the best time, dissecting recent happenings and internal evolutions of self, talking as mothers do about our children, and enjoying the whimsy and soul baring made possible by going on three decades of friendship. We did bemoan the fact that our little circle of friends who found one another when our kids attended the same grade school, did not survive the covid years entirely intact. Though we still text one another in frequent bursts, we gather as a group hardly at all now. Some of the mothers still get together one on one, or in threes or fours, but seldom the whole posse anymore. One friend in particular has drifted farthest away. Her first grandchild was born on the day in March 2020 that covid lockdowns went into effect, and to the rest of us, it seems she has fully disappeared into that enchanted country. 

I see Janice much less often, too. During covid, she retired from her job as an art teacher and moved upstate to make her beautiful ceramic sculptures full time. Another one of the group, Isabella, bought a country house upstate with her husband, and now spends her weekends there. She usually comes back to the city on Mondays for her therapy practice, and we occasionally meet for dinner on a weekday evening. Some weeks she stays upstate, as the covid years normalized talk therapy via Zoom. Isabella still prefers to see clients in person at least some of the time, but she now has options that allow her to enjoy the changing colors of the trees in beautiful New Paltz, a bustling college town with al fresco cafes, wine bars, farmers markets, and a lively student vibe. We've visited her and her husband there, and grilled lunch on their patio while looking out at the woods. It was charmed. Another of our group still has not quite come back from covid quarantines; she is nervous in crowds now, so it was an act of love when she attended my daughter's wedding unmasked. 

For my part, work has sometimes been all consuming, though I do look up from my screen and allow myself to touch the nostalgia, the ache I feel for the greater connectedness of our pre-covid days. Maybe I'm just imagining that it was so. Or maybe we all just got used to being at home more, to being in a little bubble with immediate family. Maybe we discovered the joys of being still, not having to show up anywhere, of unstructured time to fill as we chose. And yet, I miss my friends. I miss the gathering of women, sometimes with our husbands and children, the pot lucks with mismatched hand-made crockery, the rooftop evenings basking in the pink orange glow of the setting sun. I miss the New Years eve nights around tables laden with food, watching the ball drop on TV, then texting our children and other beloveds in the minutes after. I realize we're all in a new stage now, and life may simply be asking me to practice acceptance of our respective journeys.

Still, Janice and I agreed that we two Taurus women together, old friends meeting up to share hearts in the New York City night, was a kind of spiritual restoration.

Happy birthday to our firstborn

We love you so much, sweet boy, forever and ever. That photo is from his wedding day. I woke up this morning remembering when he was 3 years old, and used to say to me, "Am I a sweet boy, Mommy?" His face was so earnest. It touched my heart that he wanted to be seen thus, by me, and I told him, "You are the sweetest boy, my love." And he was, and is. 

Here's one of my favorite throwback pictures of my three: my son, my daughter and their cousin/big sister Leisa. They were five, seven, and nine in this photo. My niece, who grew up in Jamaica, spent every July with us in New York, and all three kids decamped to St. Lucia with their grandmother in August. It's why they are like siblings today. I sent this photo to the family group chat yesterday. My son noted that the number on his shirt is the age he is turning this year. Until he said it, I hadn't even noticed that, but that makes this summer of 1998 photo worth reposting today.

Light worker

This girl. I mean. I love this photo of her, taken by her husband in August during their honeymoon in Greece, two weeks after they were married. That radiant smile is all for him; he definitely sees her light. We all bask in my daughter’s light. At my cousin’s memorial service on Saturday, I whispered to her, “Sit next to me, sweetheart. I’m sorry it’s you, I know it’s a lot to be the one whose energy people find most calming, but right in this moment, I’d welcome that superpower.” She didn’t say a word, just turned that high beam smile on me and hugged me. Then took the seat beside me. 

Now she is free

Yesterday we laid our cousin Pearl to rest. Those of you who have been here for a while might remember Pearl, my Aunt Winnie's daughter, who struggled her whole teenage and adult life with addiction. Pearl isn't her real name. She breathed her last breath this past summer, having never escaped the snare of drugs and alcohol. Her health and mobility got really bad toward the end, so that when the hospital called to say she was gone, my sadness was leavened with relief. I thought, Now she is free.

The Virginia cousins, including Pearl’s son, now a decorated military man, arrived Friday night for Saturday’s service. Pearl's ashes sat on a table at the front of the church in a beautiful urn our cousin Winsome picked out. Pearl's son was raised with his aunt and uncle and their two boys in Fairfax, Virginia, and now he was back in the city of his birth to say farewell to his mother. All the New York cousins were there, too, for the service at our little country church in Harlem. We held the repast afterward in a community room where we live, and we all sensed that wherever she was, Pearl could feel our love, simpler now than it had been in life, pure. We all celebrated that she had been here with us, never mind that her years had been so troubled, that she sorely tested some of us sometimes. She was still ours. And now she has shuffled off this mortal coil, having had the experiences and learned the lessons she likely came here to master, what do we know of this, after all, and now—I feel this deeply—she is at peace. 

My son and daughter were with their cousin, Pearl's son, above center, and with others of the younger generation of cousins, below.

Last night, when everyone else had gone home, and our Virginia family were on the road back to Fairfax, our daughter said to her dad and me, "The only problem with having a big family, and loving lots and lots of people, is that it means there's a lot of loss in your future." I remember when this realization came to me, too, some years ago. It's still better to love, I decided then, and that’s what I told my girl. As for loss, I added, I just get there when I get there, and I don't keep score.

Random Friday

I'm yearning to go here, to my Jamaican homeland, to the waters I grew up in, and today, I am booking flights for the man and I to do just that shortly after Christmas. My Aunt Grace used to say, don't wait to plan a trip and book your flights and accommodations, because the anticipation of it can be just as delicious as being there, and it lasts longer.

I wanted to repost this tweet from Senator Mazie Hirono a while back, but I was pledged to keep the fact that I was collaborating with the new Justice confidential until her book came out. Now I can finally archive this post that made my heart sing back when Hawaii Democrat Mazie Hirono first tweeted it. Mazie Hirono is a member of the Judiciary Committee of the Senate, and so she met one-on-one with our Justice in the run up to her confirmation hearings, which is when this photo was taken. How lucky am I, to have had the chance to work with two such extraordinary women on writing their memoirs. The power and the goodness and the glory in that room!

Is this not a beautiful street of brownstones? It's in Park Slope, Brooklyn, a neighborhood teeming with literary folk who call New York City home. My daughter and her love will soon be moving there. I know so many people from my magazine and book worlds who live near to their new place. This one is a block in one direction, that one lives three blocks in another direction, another one is two blocks south. To welcome the newlyweds to the neighborhood, my Park Slope comrades have been texting me recommendations for hole-in-the-wall eateries with sublime food, nearby farmer's markets, and other cool stuff that I'm supposed to share with them. I think the young uns landed well, and I'm just thankful the owners of the brownstone they're moving into were less focused on what they could get for their rental apartment, and more concerned with who they might get to live there. I think they chose well, too.

Back in my own hood, my living room rug has just about given up the ghost, with visible spills and stains on the light colored carpet where people habitually sit. I've been perusing rug sites for a new floor layer, and I keep coming back to that carpet there. It's from Ruggable, ergo washable, and something about the pink and the blue and the nod to old elegance charms me. What do you think of it? Don't spare me. Tell me true. As my daughter likes to say "I'd appreciate your perspective, even though I might not listen to you."

That's my son when he was here on Monday evening to go to the gym with his dad. I was on FaceTime with my daughter and he was energetically waving hello to his new brother in law while teasingly ignoring his sister. Oh, siblings. 

I was a fat child

In case you think I'm speaking in hyperbole, there I am, with my brother and our baby cousin back in the day. This rotund image of myself has never left me, even in my twenties, when, according to photos from that time, I appeared to be "normal" sized. Then I had my kids and ballooned up again, and bless my darling husband, he never seemed fazed by any of it, he always just saw me. Now I am trying to make peace with another difficult self-conception, my aging face and penguin like gait—it's all kicking up afresh for me because in two weeks I will fly to Los Angeles to begin interviews for my next book. My subject is a young woman in her thirties, in peak physical condition, born that way really, with the speed and power of an elite athlete, and yet she chose me to be her collaborator. I need to remind myself of that. She didn't choose me based on my physical appearance, disagreeable as I seem to find it. She chose me based on an indefinable rapport we were able to tap into when we met over Zoom, based on an instinct that we could work together with mutual trust, that she could feel safe baring her heart and I would hold it gently, carefully, and I will. So why am I so very focused on the showing up aspect of my upcoming trip, the moment I walk in and imagine her thinking how fat I am, how old, how ungainly in movement, and her wondering if she made the right choice after all. Oh, I know this is supremely silly and self-absorbed of me. Besides, we have a contract, so she'll have to persevere through that moment, and I know we will get past it to do the work, and maybe after a while, like my husband, she will only see me. I need to remember that there is true human connection beyond the physical self, and may my new subject and I find the grace of that on this journey we are about to embark on together.

Happy anniversary to these two!

 

Two years ago today, my son married his beloved beside a lake in the Connecticut woods. Happy second anniversary my loves. I’m so glad we are family.

At her brother's wedding, my daughter congratulated herself on winning the sister in law lottery. We all won the new family member lottery for sure!

 

A few more wedding memories, because I don't take for granted that both my children are with partners they love, who love them, and who we love, too. I wish this for them, for our family, for a lifetime. 

 

Married people

We attended a birthday party for my son in law’s aunt yesterday; she was turning 75. For some reason, it was among his large extended family of aunts and uncles and cousins doing the electric slide on the dance floor that it finally came home to me that he and my daughter are now well and truly married. We’ve been included in their family gatherings upstate for some years now, but this was the first one where my daughter was no longer the girlfriend, but the wife, an official member of their clan. And by extension we were too. 

My girl and her love have been house hunting all month, as their current lease ends on September 30, and the rent on their one-bedroom apartment will go up exorbitantly. “We’re paying for all these building amenities that we’re always too busy to use,” my daughter said. They’ve decided they are over shiny new apartment complexes with roof decks, gyms, media spaces, and event rooms. They want something older, simpler, with flaws that lend character, like a floor-through in a pre-war brownstone. Well, they may have found exactly that, a two-bedroom garden apartment in the Brooklyn neighborhood where they were hoping to land. 

Competition for apartments in the city being as fierce as it is—with bidding wars on rent pushing some places out of reach of mere mortals—my two reached out to the listing agent and preemptively submitted an application as soon as they saw the posting. They arranged to view the space yesterday morning before driving upstate with us. They did worry that the agent and owners might invite a bidding situation, thereby pricing them out of the running. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. While we were at the party, the owners, who occupy the brownstone’s upper floors with their sons, texted to ask if my daughter and her husband would come by to meet with them today as a step toward offering them a lease. 

This afternoon’s meeting apparently went well. The owners are a lovely French Canadian expat couple, and he works in finance like my son in law, and she works in marketing like my daughter. It’s not quite a done deal yet, but it looks promising. The apartment is not appreciably larger than my daughter's current place, but it's charming in an old world way, with an extra bedroom, whitewashed brick walls, an updated kitchen and bathroom, good natural light, and a private back patio that looks onto a garden—a rare thing in the city. It's also on a great brownstone street in Park Slope, for substantially less rent than they've been paying. I'm praying their new situation turns out to be harmonious in every way.

My daughter told me something the other day that I rather enjoyed. I had observed, not for the first time, that she and her love seem to manage big, complicated tasks with little conflict. She said, “Did I ever tell you about our ministries?” No, I responded, intrigued. “Well,” she said, “we each have our ministries. I am the minister of travel and Noel is the minister of finance. I was the minister of wedding planning and now he is the minister of moving. It doesn’t mean either of us is doing any of these things alone, but there is a definite project lead!” She gave a delighted little clap as she finished, which made me laugh and laugh.  

Update: They got the place! They sign the new lease tomorrow.

Just because (more wedding pics)

This morning, because it made me happy, I was looking through photos of my daughter's wedding again, and decided to share some of the ones we got later, from the wedding photographer and others, in this place where I put everything I want to be able to find again easily. That photo up top is one of my top two faves, along with the mood shot I shared in a previous post. Here are some other snaps of that charmed evening in Brooklyn, when my daughter was betrothed, and I gained another son.

 

My son walked me down the aisle first.

 

Then my husband and daughter appeared and my eyes were a fountain.

 

The look on my husband's face says everything.

 

Welcome to the family, son.

 

My son and his wife watched the first dance, remembering their own two years ago.

 The grade school lifers were out in force.

 

My daughter's godmother made the beautiful cake.

 

Let's take a moment for the breathtaking flowers and table settings.

 

The wedding was at Brooklyn Winery, which offered to have the bride and groom seal their vows in a box with a personalized labeled wine, to be opened, and read and sipped, on their first anniversary.

 

 

The dance floor was rocking all night!

Number one on the list!

I'm grateful to have been a part of this work, which my subject and I collaborated on in the deepest sense of the word. She gave her all, and then some. I'm grateful, too, for a publishing team full of grace, with every person involved operating from a place of love. But the credit for this bestselling berth goes most fully and completely to the Justice, who is having a magnificent book tour, and who is being enthusiastically received by book-buying audiences everywhere. People understand so clearly the historic nature of her appointment, indeed of her very being. The photo of the street mural depicting our Justice and her hero, Judge Constance Baker Motley, the first Black woman to be appointed to the federal bench, was taken by Jamia Wilson, the book's wonderful editor.