Hello again

Hi old friends. And some new. It’s been a while. Today is Saturday, and it’s 5 degrees in New York. I have nothing on my calendar except this. Writing. Something. Anything. I’m allowing myself a FaceTime with a friend and a drawn out, decadent breakfast this morning. But then it’s words. On a page. Today.

Checking in on here has been a looming task. Mostly because I’ve felt like I don’t have much to say. Which is a lie.. I sometimes get in the habit of telling myself. Because I know once I start, there’s always something to say.

It’s easy to avoid writing, because writing is hard. I’ve said that on here before, and I stand by it. It’s uncomfortable, climbing through my mind, dusting off cobwebs and wiping dirt off the mirror. Gripping, preparing for whatever lies underneath the day-to-day grime. Writing is like crawling through the attic. It’s intriguing. Ominous. Dark. Sort of endless. Familiar, but also not. There’s a good chance I’ll draw blood digging a splinter out of my palm or stepping on a rusty nail. But there’s also good in the attic. It’s full of treasures. I always find something new. Or something I forgot existed. An artifact from childhood. A memory. A habit. Or a way of seeing the world. Something to tape on the wall of my bedroom. Or bring up in conversation with a friend while sitting at a dive bar.

Tonight I’ll be doing just that. Sitting in a booth at Minnows in Greenpoint. In a few hours, some friends and I will convene there and spend the first twenty minutes thawing our fingers and toes. I’ll sip on a Guinness Zero, and our coats will pile high in the corner of the booth where the seat meets the wall. Maybe that one guy will bring his Dalmatian. And maybe we’ll talk to it like it’s our baby, because we don’t have babies of our own yet. Dog or human.

The temperature in New York has been below freezing for a long time. I’m not counting the days, but I sort of am, so I know it’s been three weeks. The extreme cold limits walking in New York, because 1) frostbite, and 2) the ice-mound obstacle course. The blizzard left giant snow piles lining the sidewalks, which have now hardened into grayish-black ice. Pedestrians are forced to walk in these narrow, shoveled pathways. Which means passing an elderly woman or stopping to untangle your wired headphones isn’t really an option. So we’re all walking in unison right now. At the same glacial pace. Sort of like kindergarten.

Commuting in these single-file lines leaves me with some nail-biting, skin-crawling, I’m-going-to-be-so-fucking-late feelings. In a way that makes walking feel a bit like meditating. Or, for that matter, writing. Productive. Gradual. Necessary. But mildly excruciating.

I’ve been on the Amtrak a lot this month. Visiting cities I’ve spent almost no time in: DC, Philly, Boston. I went to the space museum in Washington, DC, and ate a lobster roll with snow up to my knees in Boston. Returning after weekends away has meant a few Monday 5 a.m. wake up calls. I’ve grown accustomed to making my way to the station, locating a coffee, and waiting for my train’s platform number to pop up on the big screen, always with a voice in my head whispering: nine and three-quarters.

Train travel has reminded me of space. How much of it there is. Looking out the window at all the houses as they pass by in a blur. If I watch closely, a house or two freezes for a moment. And that’s when I see what lies between Boston and New York. Or rather, who. The thousands of rooftops and porches and driveways. The boxes that hold people. Families. Men and women who have plans this weekend, best friends to call, babies to rock, cats to feed, and mother-in-laws somewhere nearby. People who navigate the same East Coast winter snow that I do, but also not at all. Because these people in the blur have cars. And I’m a girl who walks to the subway. In a single-file line.

Boston, Philly, and DC feel muted compared to New York. Which is a relief, because it shows me that I’m still where I’m meant to be. But also, in some way, being outside of New York feels more familiar. Riding the train back and forth, I’m reminded that garages have passcodes. That green grass turns to yellow straw in the winter. And that Chuck E. Cheese still exists.

I’m reminded how many humans live on this earth. And how to most of them, I am insignificant. To the people living in the blur outside the train between Boston and New York, my problems are not problems at all.

Being on the train reminds me that there is still more to see. More to do. That the world can still feel immense. The kind of immense that makes me feel like the sun is setting and mom’s making dinner. And I’m still rummaging through the attic, pulling a splinter out of my palm.

Kathleen x