the Ramble
Last Friday, my father and I walked from 2nd Street and Avenue A up to 106th and Broadway. I'd wanted to go the Whitney, which is one of my favorite museums because (I probably shouldn't admit this) I think it is the perfect size. We floated through the Edward Hopper room down the stairs, away from the permanent collection, to an exhibit of an artist who did earth works. Videos showed him dragging an island down the Hudson River and swirling huge tracts of snow into...swirls that look, from above, like something that is too perfect to let out of the house.
When we left, we walked across Central Park, through the Ramble, and my father talked about his involvement with Greenways and Walk-Bike Nashville and how, at one of their recent Small Group meetings on Sunday nights, the topic was sharing. The question was, "What are you doing to save the world?" And it clicked for there, on the bridge above the mossy pond in the Park -- I realized, again, that part of living is living not only in my own experience.
It is storming rain here, blowing wind so hard I hold my breath waiting for a tree to fall over. I cried when my dad left, despite the fact that there were moments when it was hard to share my space and thoughts. The best part was Saturday, another night so rainy, and we'd gone to the Greenmarket at Union Square and we cooked a feast and I lit tiny candles and we talked about books and then we talked about our family. I've decided to go to St. Louis this weekend to visit my sister for the first time -- and my parents will be there, my father is going to run in some kind of race -- and I think that part of the fallout of all this (broken) engagement drama is this: It reminds me who my family is. It reminds me not to take them for granted, these three people who really do put up with me and offer this stretchy unconditional love.
It is no small thing.
This morning, I woke up at six to proofread Shannon's poetry thesis because she is dyslexic and all of her misspellings are something that I find both incredibly endearing and also so hard not to want to fix. She wrote me an email with an attachment and it said, "That kind of bad sownding one about you? dont worry, after I rote it you got me off. rittious."
It is a poem about sex between two women who keep score. In different ways, I still do that, not in bed but with this idea I have that things should be even. Effort should always be reciprocated. I want to be less like that. I want to be the way my parents are with me, the way my sister is with everyone she meets -- I want to give my time and myself to the people I love and have faith that everything that's lost or gone unnoticed isn't for nothing.
When we left, we walked across Central Park, through the Ramble, and my father talked about his involvement with Greenways and Walk-Bike Nashville and how, at one of their recent Small Group meetings on Sunday nights, the topic was sharing. The question was, "What are you doing to save the world?" And it clicked for there, on the bridge above the mossy pond in the Park -- I realized, again, that part of living is living not only in my own experience.
It is storming rain here, blowing wind so hard I hold my breath waiting for a tree to fall over. I cried when my dad left, despite the fact that there were moments when it was hard to share my space and thoughts. The best part was Saturday, another night so rainy, and we'd gone to the Greenmarket at Union Square and we cooked a feast and I lit tiny candles and we talked about books and then we talked about our family. I've decided to go to St. Louis this weekend to visit my sister for the first time -- and my parents will be there, my father is going to run in some kind of race -- and I think that part of the fallout of all this (broken) engagement drama is this: It reminds me who my family is. It reminds me not to take them for granted, these three people who really do put up with me and offer this stretchy unconditional love.
It is no small thing.
This morning, I woke up at six to proofread Shannon's poetry thesis because she is dyslexic and all of her misspellings are something that I find both incredibly endearing and also so hard not to want to fix. She wrote me an email with an attachment and it said, "That kind of bad sownding one about you? dont worry, after I rote it you got me off. rittious."
It is a poem about sex between two women who keep score. In different ways, I still do that, not in bed but with this idea I have that things should be even. Effort should always be reciprocated. I want to be less like that. I want to be the way my parents are with me, the way my sister is with everyone she meets -- I want to give my time and myself to the people I love and have faith that everything that's lost or gone unnoticed isn't for nothing.
posted by Sarah at 11:38 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home