Archive | Spirit Matters

Lemonade by Post

I had a perfectly awful day, full of low-grade aesthetic irritations like bleeding blisters from my allegedly sensible shoes and a rash from an exposed zipper and underpants whose elastic waistband snapped on the subway and two handsome younger men who “ma’am”ed me (I don’t care where or how you grew up, all women hate ma’am!) and the unhappy realization that, when it gets humid, my new haircut looks like Amadeus’ wig. By the time I got off the subway all I wanted to do was lie naked in a dark room with a glass of opium, er, wine.

Instead, I got lemonade in my mailbox. There, in lieu of bills, I found a beautifully festooned card sent, unbidden, by my favorite ten-year-old in all the land: Miss Luci Vanderpile, my most epistolary of goddaughters. I mean, there were scratch ‘n’ sniff stickers! And sparkly hedgehogs! When I finally brought myself to open the envelope (really, it was almost too pretty to disturb), it contained so many hand-printed treasures that I sat on my bed and wept grateful tears. All hail the magical healing powers of snail mail–and godfamily, of course. All hail godfamily.

Everyone’s a Pagan Tonight

Tonight after cleaning up the detritus of Sunday dinner, I saged myself, took a salt bath, and went downstairs to pay my respects to the blood moon eclipse from my stoop. All around me, couples were fighting. Granted, I live in Williamsburg, melodrama central. But even for my neighborhood, it was a bit much. One couple was fighting at the corner, another was fighting in front of a parked car across the street, yet another was fighting right in front of my building. That third couple stopped their yelling for a second to stare at me when I settled in on the stoop, the “Do you mind?” hanging over their head in a cartoon bubble they didn’t utter aloud. (Millennials make for unusually passive-aggressive New Yorkers.) Continue Reading →

We’re All Hotel Clerks

There are moments when I feel I am nothing but the small clerk of some hotel without a proprietor, who has all his work cut out to enter the names and hand the keys to the willful guests.–Katherine Mansfield

I came across this in Tracy Daugherty’s Joan Didion biography, The Last Love Song, which I’ve been reading thirstily and disdainfully. I don’t mind the anonymity the quote describes, but I’ve been flashing on it as I’ve been watching the day turn to night. Sun’s turning all kinds of neon bruises that’ll disappear with her grand exit, permakitten Grace and I are admiring from the kitchen window, and there’s this feeling–immense, bottomless–of all of us passing through each other without leaving a dent. What’s interesting is how completely I’ve come to accept this. It’s not sad, not really. It’s just the fourth dimension, slicing through our existential chatter.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy