This is the first Tuesday morning I haven’t had to climb into into critic drag in more than five years. My show, Talking Pictures, was cancelled along with most of NY1’s other entertainment programming. The layoff dovetails with the end of my 15-year tenure as a labor journal editor, a job that quietly conferred the bulk of my financial stability. All to say: I am at a serious crossroads. But like clockwork, I rise with the dawn anyway–make coffee and Gracie’s breakfast and putter into my office. For a minute I’m floored. What shall I do with this time? What path shall I forge forward?Then my eye falls on the flowers still blooming on my desk from last weekend’s readings. Freesia and pussy willows, still sitting pretty in my ecosystem like the most gracious of emissaries: pollenated, fragrant, soft. I sigh and take a deep soldiering breath. I can do this, I’m pretty sure. I can do this, though I don’t even know what “it” is yet. This is spring. This is not the time to fall.
This is the first Tuesday morning I haven’t had to climb into into critic drag in more than five years. My show, Talking Pictures, was cancelled along with most of NY1’s other entertainment programming. The layoff dovetails with the end of my 15-year tenure as a labor journal editor, a job that quietly conferred the bulk of my financial stability. All to say: I am at a serious crossroads. But like clockwork, I rise with the dawn anyway–make coffee and Gracie’s breakfast and putter into my office. For a minute I’m floored. What shall I do with this time? What path shall I forge forward?Then my eye falls on the flowers still blooming on my desk from last weekend’s readings. Freesia and pussy willows, still sitting pretty in my ecosystem like the most gracious of emissaries: pollenated, fragrant, soft. I sigh and take a deep soldiering breath. I can do this, I’m pretty sure. I can do this, though I don’t even know what “it” is yet. This is spring. This is not the time to fall.