The highlight of my week working in homecare has to be on Thursday afternoons when this Senegalese nanny I work with yells at the cat (in very aggressive French) to stay away from me and out of the room I am working in. If I ever really feel like someone in this life has my back, it’s when I am with this woman. (Although my theory is that the cat drives her nuts and she can’t wait until allergic-me shows up every week just so she has an excuse to yell at him. But still…). She also always asks me if I need to use the bathroom before she starts to give the kids a bath as I am getting ready to leave. It’s extremely thoughtful. And she says THANK YOU, GOD! to me in English every time I return to work after being sick. As if I had some terminal disease and she is extremely grateful that I survived.
HAVE GOOD WEEKEND (you too!) and DO YOU NEED BATHROOM (yes, please!) is the extent of our conversations on most days. We only speak a few words in the same language. Last summer she took an extended vacation and returned from her home country with something beautiful and handmade for me. I was floored. And then touched. When I showed it off to a friend with great excitement he asked what it was and I didn’t know. I was embarrassed to ask. Whatever it is I love it and will keep it forever.
People like her are one step away from Friends of Friends. Something like People you See Regularly and Adore but Don’t Really Know Them at All. Like the doorman who gestures towards the elevator while he is still calling up so I can get a head start and avoid being late every Wednesday afternoon. Or the lady in the tea shop who stopped by the grocery on her way to work to pick up lemons herself one morning after I asked for an “Earl Grey with lemon” three Tuesdays in a row. (I kept forgetting that that chain doesn’t stock lemons). Or like the senior who drinks coffee on the bench outside the cafe that used to tell me every morning that he loved me when I walked by to go to the train. Well, that’s a morale booster! He says it to a lot of people, but still, it’s always nice to hear. The sassy usher at City Center with the fantastic bun who I now recognize after so many years of Fall for Dance. The guys that work at the laundromat that used to save my favorite laundry cart for me on Saturday mornings.
It’s impossible to feel lonely in this city.
Would any of these people show up at my funeral? No. But who needs that when they show up in my life every day.
When you move or your routine changes, you miss these people. But you might not know them enough to have said good-bye. My schedule will change this summer and I won’t have that 15″ on Tuesday morning to stop for tea anymore. I will stop coming in to ask for lemon. Maybe the lady will notice and say “that girl doesn’t come in for her lemon anymore.” Or maybe she won’t. Maybe in July I will have a day off and go up for a cup of tea and she will say “OH! How have you been? It’s been a while.” Maybe she won’t work there anymore. Maybe she will have gone back to school to be an accountant or is home taking care of her mother. Maybe she will never think of me again. But I will never forget the lemon. Nor will I forget the I LOVE YOU! Or the mysterious gift from Senegal. Or the unusually enthusiastic conductor on the A train who exclaims, every Monday morning, “Welcome back from the weekend!” I have never even seen his face.
Last year, my Thursday afternoon client got confused about when the nanny was supposed to be returning from her visit home. We were all worried for several days when she didn’t come back to work when expected and before we realized it was just a misunderstanding of dates. When she appeared the following week all I could think was THANK YOU, GOD!
It was an odd sight to see- me sitting under the kitchen table with the dog, crying. He knew I was upset and tried to get his giant body close to mine at the kitchen table despite all the obstructing chair and table legs so eventually I just got under there with him to make it easier. He was just as confused as I was with my spontaneous outburst. I had been cooking all day for the week ahead- hair up, focused, determined, and then finally done. The kitchen was closed, cleaned. I was the only human home. Time to relax. I sat down at the table and wept.
I had read that morning on social media that a friend of a friend had passed away. I was just then giving myself permission to process. I didn’t feel like I was grieving for myself, but for my friend. And for anyone else whose life this person touched. And, I suppose if I am to be honest, for the empty space that now existed in my universe.
Connecting with friends of friends is one of my favorite things. These are people you’ve met through someone you already care about, so they get an instant upgrade to highly esteemed. It takes me a long time to make a new friend myself so it’s nice to have people vetted for me ahead of time. You can feel safe to just be with this person and have a good time. Whatever is happening right now was invite only, and everyone here was invited, so it’s cool. Or something like that.
People who qualify: someone who was a bridesmaid with you in a wedding once and you all had a blast; your college roommate’s running partner for whom you cheer at marathons; your cousin’s best friend who is at every important family event; your best friend’s co-worker who pops up just as often and you are always thrilled to see her and catch up. I have a much longer list…These people are extended family in a friend sort of way. You usually don’t have their phone numbers, but you keep up with their lives on social media or ask your friend how they are doing because you care. They are important to you because they are important to your friend. Friends of friends.
I once cheered on a friend’s friend-from-home as he made an incredible fitness transformation that he documented on social media. I felt like I was his biggest fan. I followed the adventures of a friend’s college roommate who became an instant-Mom as she cared for foreign exchange students from around the world for several years in a row. I was in awe of how she opened herself up to such an overwhelming experience with love and kindness. I am often inspired by friends of friends.
I’ve met lots of great people from around the country when a friend visits me in NYC and their friend tags along. Surviving my Central Park drag-through (tour) makes for easy bonding, I guess. Or how can you not make a new friend when you visit the library on Fifth Avenue together? Obligatory lion pic!
A few years ago I met an online book club friend in real life for the first time when she visited NYC. Her friend, Kathy, came along. After the trip and the lion pics, Kathy and I became FoF on Facebook. She was a joy to have on my timeline. She was smart and witty and had a kind heart. She volunteered at a cat shelter and showed up weekly to read to children who needed someone to read with them one to one. The kids liked the colorful streaks in her hair. I liked her cat reports and her kid reports. And I also liked the colorful streaks in her hair. If Marie Kondo asked me, I would tell her that reading about Kathy brought me joy. Selfishly, I loved when she commented on my posts; she was very supportive of MY adventures too. She always had something smart or encouraging to say.
When I heard Kathy passed I thought of my dear book club friend and their life-long friendship. And her family I didn’t know much about. And the cats. And the kids she read to. And then I cooked for five hours. And then sat under the table with the dog and cried. I am not “sorry for (my) loss” so please, don’t write that. I am sorry for those of you who didn’t know her.
Cheers to all the wonderful people on the periphery who make our lives a little better every day, whatever we call them. How about, just “friends?”
I am living in history. This was my thought as the curtain went up and the music started.
I had the honor of attending the Paul Taylor Memorial Performance at Lincoln Center on Monday night. I want to tell you how special it was but I need to talk about pizza first so we can all understand just HOW special. Paul Taylor was NOT a pizza artisan. Just listen.
So it’s widely agreed that Lombardi had the first pizza place in New York City since he was the first to apply for a permit for a pizza oven. The now-famous Patsy, John, and Antonio (Totonno) all worked with Lombardi at some point and then went off to open places of their own. All four of these restaurants still exist in some way. Another icon, Grimaldi, was Patsy’s nephew and also opened his own place (then sold it, regretted selling it, and opened Juliana’s next door but that’s a different story). Just remember that Grimaldi is a third generation pizza master, descended directly from the greats. All of these men influenced what NYC pizza is today and Grimaldi is still with us as a direct connection to our delicious past. This is why NY is such an incredible city. We are living in history.
Paul Taylor is the Grimaldi of American modern dance. If contemporaries Isadora Duncan (who started it all on the beaches of California) and Ruth St. Denis (together with her husband, Ted Shawn) represent Lombardi, then students Martha Graham and Doris Humphrey can represent say…Patsy and John. Paul Taylor, who trained with Graham, not only shares third-generation status with Grimaldi but both gentlemen worked tirelessly at their crafts well into their eighties bringing joy, art, and culture to the masses. Paul Taylor was with us until just last year and through his company will continue to connect us to the greats. That, specifically, was his intent in his last few years and it will be his legacy. In recent years he added “American” to the name of his company and started staging classic dances from other modern dance companies as well as having other dance companies perform alongside his own in an effort to keep the history of the genre alive. Thanks to Paul, I was able to see dances performed live that I had only ever read about. They were incredible gifts of time travel I will forever be grateful for. It’s like going to Lombardi’s or Grimaldi’s for the first time and tasting “real pizza.”
So I had the absolute honor of attending Paul Taylor’s Memorial Performance at Lincoln Center. It’s only because I have excellent (if not also morbid timing). Last year I donated (a fairly small amount of money) to Paul Taylor American Modern Dance. I donated in the name of my own dance mentor, who is still teaching ballet and modern technique, choreography, and dance history to students at SUNY Geneseo. Jonette Lancos is herself fourth-generation descended from the masters, having studied with Nona Shurman of the Humphrey-Weidman group. She works tirelessly to educate about and celebrate all styles of modern dance and the importance of dance in our culture. Every performance I watch is elevated to a level of enjoyment and understanding I can only attribute to her passionate teaching.
So, because I donated a tiny bit as a gesture of appreciation to both Paul and Jonette, and it happened to be last year (only a couple of months before Taylor passed) I (at the last minute) received two tickets to the memorial performance. I had this feeling, as I almost always do when I get to do something cool in this city, that I didn’t actually belong there and for sure someone would discover this and ask me to leave. I would make the most of it until then.
I had about five minutes to communicate with my guest about what we would be seeing. I babbled out a brief history of Paul Taylor’s having a swimming background- so look for the V shapes, and the arms moving with the torso, and the feeling of moving through water (I realize this is a lot to ask of a newbie but if you are going to sit next to me you are going to learn something). Look for the structure! Every one of Mr. Taylor’s pieces could be an example to any choreography class on how to use lines, groups, and levels to great effect regardless of what the actual movements are. Look for humanity. Paul Taylor dancers are people like you and me. They are not sent by the gods to enthrall and impress- instead they are here to inspire. To give the impression that all of us could just get off the couch and be dancers if we choose. (We can be)! In fact, I have never not danced home from a PT concert.
So we arrive and we sit. I see in the program that I have not seen any of the pieces being shown which is both exciting and disappointing. I watch, enraptured, wondering what it’s like for the dancers to perform someone’s own art as a memorial to them. I cry several times in case they can’t. I take some time at intermission to share with my guest the dance history lineage above. And try to articulate how incredible it is for us to be here. When we return to our seats, I gush with the woman next to me who had the privilege of seeing my favorite modern dance piece of all time, Esplande, when it debuted in 1975. When I ask if she is a dancer, she explains that she never danced professionally but she took advanced-beginner level classes (i.e., college level) around town and sees performances regularly. She doesn’t know if that counts. I tell her it does! She is me in 25 years.
Paul Taylor. Not dancing. Definitely still a dancer.
The new artistic director, also a lover of dance history, speaks about Mr. Taylor and we are all confident the legacy will continue. I cry again. We watch the final piece (which incidentally I didn’t love) but I appreciate the theme and its importance. After final curtain, a steady stream of dancers come out in twos to place long-stemmed lilies under a large projected photo of their mentor. There is lots of hugging. And of course, crying.
We leave immediately after bc I didn’t donate quite enough to be invited to the champagne reception. We go to dinner and order champagne instead. We toast a wonderful, important evening and I pull one of my most prized possessions out of my bag. It’s time for show and tell…
One summer after college I was invited by a friend to work as a counselor at a state-wide sleep-away dance program for high school students. I was in charge of a small tribe of aspiring dancers and as a perk of the gig, I got to take class with them from industry professionals. Carolyn Adams, an early member of the Taylor company and the first black woman to dance with them was the founding artistic director of the summer program. She was intelligent, poised, and talented. She was a strict but loving teacher. I had a fantastic summer.
On the last day of camp, right before I set off to graduate school where I would train to be a speech-language pathologist, Carolyn gave each of the staff a small journal, empty but for an inscription inside the front cover. I pull out the journal at dinner now, twenty-two years later, and hand it across the table to share. At the time, it was the perfect note to help me transition to the next phase of my life.
Dear Eileen,
Your energy and enthusiasm greeted me on many a potentially bleak morning. I hope your lovely positive outlook will bring you joy and success.
Your dancing does fine justice to your gracious demeanor.
Have a great year, Carolyn
I interpret the end there as… you dance as you are. Or, you are as you dance. Either way works. I would try to keep this sentiment alive, though at times it was more difficult than others, to remind myself that dance would always be a part of my being whether I was physically in a studio or not.
I refuse to write anything in this journal. Those words are enough. I come across it every time I move which is perfect. At the start of each new endeavor, it’s important to be reminded of who I am at my core.
Perhaps in 25 years, there will be an anniversary concert and I will tell the young person next to me that I had the honor of being at Paul Taylor’s Memorial Performance in 2019. And that no, I didn’t dance professionally but I took classes when I could and attended performances as often as I could afford. And that I continuously try to live with grace. And that yes, that counts.
Cheers to Paul Taylor and to all who toil to keep the great works of the masters alive- whether it is pizza, dance, art, music- so that they can continue to inspire present and future generations. And to those of us who toil to keep that influence alive within ourselves.
My new dance history student, by the way, did an excellent job spotting the motifs we discussed on the way to the show as well as identifying others. And, if you are wondering… he DID dance at least part of the way home. ————————————
My favorite section of my favorite dance piece, Esplanade, choreographed by Paul Taylor, here.
My empty but for the inscription journal, by the way, lives on the same shelf as my Free to Bee album.
So this little seven or eight-year old boy is somehow left on the subway platform while the rest of his party is whisked away by the uptown F train. I would guess by his look and his dress that he’s visiting from out of state or maybe the suburbs. I have seen this once before, over 20 years ago, but in reverse- I was inside the car with the child while his desperate mother and sister were left outside banging on the window as the train pulled away. It’s all quite gut-wrenching to watch and everyone always freezes for a second in disbelief.
And then the moms come.
I don’t know if they all have children of their own but it seems like every female in a ten-foot radius takes cues from a strong maternal instinct to step towards the little-lost soul. Whoever gets there first gets down on the child’s level and OPENS THEMSELVES UP. Everyone, including the child, is focused on this one person who is going to make it okay. We are all going to be just fine. This will all sort out and this kind woman who stepped forward will somehow make sure of it.
But wait. Who is this person? The women who are a fraction too slow, or a few feet further away, or not as nimble to crouch so low lean in a bit to listen and assess. There is healthy skepticism. Because the woman consoling the child is a stranger. She has not been elected and there has been no conference about what to do ahead of time. So they all wait to make sure that even though she means well, she is capable.
Convinced, some eventually back off to give the child some room to breathe. In the end, there will be just a few surrogates who remain. And another two who agree to go together to alert the authorities. I imagine they go as a pair so that each can hold the other accountable for following through. Our hero, the one who is in charge of keeping the child calm, will eventually glance around to make eye contact with the team and then there is nothing to do but wait.
And watch.
Because from whom are we all working together to protect the child if not each other? A healthy set of checks and balances, I think. It really does take a village.
live – more than just existing. being present. paying attention. participating. giving. taking. being seen. being heard. seeing and hearing others. feeling everything.
love – anyone or anything. a friend visiting, seeing theatre, the dog. sharing a bottle of red wine. going to the movies alone. the whole foods employee who fits ALL the groceries in one bag. the way the city smells like bacon on Sunday mornings. the adorable man who sells maple cotton candy at the farmer’s market. maple cotton candy. weeping willows, the park at dawn.
dance – in a class, on a stage, around the lower loop in the park. while drunk at a wedding, upon hearing good news, to avoid bumping into a stranger. to cross the living room. when picking something up off the floor, when navigating through a busy ladies’ room.
run – for the train, for the bus, for the finish line. up a hill, over a fence, along a ledge, around the reservoir. for the sweat, the heart rate, the scenery, the fresh air, the peace of mind. To feel alive. To be alive. To live.
Last night we went to see Jazz at Dizzy’s Club and I cried through three straight songs.
I cried because it was Fleur Suele’s first performance at this acclaimed club. Her big debut.
Because I know Fleur from seeing her perform at Tavern on the Green one beautiful summer evening with some great company. Outdoor seating, perfect weather, beautiful music. An iconic restaurant in my favorite park.
Because when I first moved to NYC I would exercise in the park at night and hear the parties at Tavern through the bushes. At the time they had some of the gigantic animal topiaries made for Edward Scissorhands displayed in the garden. The trees were adorned with fairy lights. Everything seemed magical. I wondered who the people inside celebrating were and how they came to be there.
Because on the east side of Tavern on the Green, on the bridle path, were three tall wooden pillars. They were likely there to prevent cars from entering the path but they looked more like something you could tie your horse to. That summer (before Tavern officially closed) I approached one of the pillars – it measured somewhere between my waist and my chest. I had an incredible urge to pull myself up and stand on it. I should say – balance on it. It was very narrow.
Because I decided that by the end of the summer I would be able to do this. I would train every day and make it happen. I didn’t know that Parkour was “a thing” then, but I was doing this sort of thing on my own. I would practice until I had the arm strength, the core strength, the leg strength, and the balance to do it. It had been years since I had consistently exercised.
Because I did it by the end of the evening.
And then I was watching the party from four feet higher, on one leg, covered in sweat and dirt, wishing I had a glass of that champagne.
Ten years later, my new hip is finally ready for me to climb impossible things again. Fleur Suele has graduated to Dizzy’s. Tavern on the Green has since reopened. I have been on the other side of those bushes, bubbly in hand.
Last night we went to see Jazz at Dizzy’s Club and I cried through three straight songs.
I know I said I would be writing from the train but this one’s coming from my workspace. No clients today.
So after a whole career of doing paperwork and such at home, I now pay a whole bunch of money for an empty desk and an empty file cabinet in what is usually an empty room. I am paying for EMPTY SPACE. And it’s brilliant. No distractions from work. (Except now I am writing this blog so I guess nothing is foolproof.)
Most of the people here are running start-ups. They grow bigger and upgrade to bigger and bigger spaces until they finally move out and rent whole floors somewhere else. It’s inspiring! My goal is to just keep up with the work that I am already supposed to be doing. I expect to be here forever and hope that no one finds me.
The community here is very friendly. We get newsletters every week, at least, boasting of member accomplishments. So and so launched their new website! This guy’s product will be available to sample tonight at happy hour! Congrats to this girl for publishing her first book! Recently it was this:
Big congrats to Alan Alda! Alan is the 55th recipient of SAG-AFTRA’s highest honor. He’ll get the award in January at the 25th annual Screen Actors Guild Awards, which airs live on TNT and TBS.
Huh. Even super famous and successful people use co-working space, I guess. Because the rents in NYC are “too damn high,” even for him? Or because he is trying to avoid the dishes and the laundry and the dog that needs to go out like I am? We all have our reasons.
Mr. Alda isn’t at my location, but one close by. I add him to my mental list of celebrities that I know live in my old neighborhood but that I have never seen.
A few days later I see him. Of course, I do.
I am leaving the same building he is about to enter. The doorman is in between. Not sure who will get there first. He’s been on my mind since the co-working space newsletter made it seem as if he was just like one of us hopeful young entrepreneurs. I have been reflecting on the surprising influence he has had on my life. I grew up, literally (NOT figuratively), listening to Free to Be You and Me, the children’s album he put out with Marlo Thomas, Mel Brooks and friends back in the ’70s. It was the soundtrack to my early childhood years and played constantly. It made a great impression on how I view the world and how I care about others. I currently have the album on my iPod. (Yes I still have an iPod). The tunes are frequently in my head.
Free to Be You and Me teaches that it’s okay to cry (like Dudley), that girls may or may not grow up to be pretty and boys may or may not grow up to be strong, that we shouldn’t judge people by their appearances, and that it’s okay if boys want to play with dolls- it will only make them better fathers (like William). Michael Jackson and Diana Ross sing on the album. Carol Channing is in some of the skits. It is perfection. I knew Alan Alda’s voice years before I ever saw his face.
After a small gap, Mr. Alda came back into my life via MASH reruns. Every single night around dinner time. For years. I was supposed to do PT exercises for my back every day when I watched MASH (we call that “habit stacking” now). To this day, when I do a bridge in yoga class, I think of this man. I hear him on NPR, as an academic, talking about science and communication and his new projects in these fields. He is ever-present in my life.
Now I know that he rents space to write. And where he lives. And we are about to walk through the same doorway at the same time and it isn’t big enough for the both of us.
Should I tell him that I still have my original Free to Be album? (It has survived every move)! Should I tell him that several years ago Marlo Thomas signed it at her book signing? Would he chuckle when I told him that instead of saying “Dear Eileen,” it says “Dear Roman” because of a small communication mix-up that night between my best friend from kindergarten and Caroline (of Caroline’s) where the signing took place? And how hard I laugh every time I look at it?
Since most famous people in NY appreciate being left alone I decide (as I expected I would) to just smile and say “excuse me.”
He smiles back and steps aside.
He is all for equal rights and he is also a gentleman.
from stlyrics.com, as sung by Diana Ross
When we grow up, will I be a lady? Will you be an engineer? Will I have to wear things like perfume and gloves? I can still pull the whistle while you steer. Well, I don’t care if I’m pretty at all. And I don’t care if you never get tall. I like what I look like, and you’re nice small. We don’t have to change at all.
When I grow up, I’m gonna be happy and do what I like to do, Like making noise and making faces and making friends like you. And when we grow up, do you think we’ll see That I’m still like you and you’re still like me? I might be pretty; you might grow tall. But we don’t have to change at all.
This post is dedicated to my best friend from kindergarten who grew up to be both pretty and tall. 🙂
Welcome! But quiet, please. An audience makes me nervous. I am trying to write so if you are an ambulance siren or a messy desk or a dog that needs to go out you are not helping either.
Actually, skip it.
You stay. I’ll just write everything on my phone when I’m on the train anyway. That way the notable stuff that happens to me, near me, or in spite of me will be recorded before my brain puts it in the shredder pile. The time crunch will help too. *I need a fully formed thought by 14th Street or the world will never hear about this busker who takes Venmo.* That kind of thing helps productivity.
BTW- notable stuff happens to, near, or in spite of all of us. I think I am just inclined to pay attention. But since you arenot paying attention, I will feel free to share.
