A New Missing

Miami. As I sit here, I am becoming acutely aware of two things. I drastically miss my wife, and I am
a bit homesick for New York.

The first came as no surprise. I braced myself for it. She is the love I now call home, and I miss her every day while we simply go about our daily lives. The most perfect time of my day is when I see her again, whether it has been two hours or, because of our different schedules, eighteen. 

The second was a bit of a surprise. Not because I don't love living in New York, but because it hadn't dawned on me that I would actually miss it. You see, I've never lived in a place that I could say I actually miss when I'm away. I've missed people, my family and friends, but never really a place. (Although I miss France, but in a different way. And besides, I think I might have just been born with that condition!)

When I arrived on Sunday, I uber-ed myself over to South Beach. (My first uber experience, by the way, and I am a fan.) The ocean has a way of refreshing my soul, and it felt so wonderful to sink my toes in the sand. I stood on the edge of the water, letting each wave cover my ankles as I closed my eyes and just listened to the sounds of the universe. Afterwards, I walked along Lincoln Road, whiffed more than a few waves of second-hand marijuana, and took in the sights. Realizing I hadn't eaten since breakfast, I started searching. Two blocks up, I was greeted with a familiar sight of home. Shake Shack. The feeling that accompanied this sighting was the first realization of my homesickness. Of course, I had to go. 

As I sat drinking a cold Brooklyn brew and enjoying one of the best hamburgers I think I've had in my life, I smiled realizing my thoughts were in New York not Miami. I thought of the bench in Washington Square Park where I love to sit and read. It is just far enough away to silence the drummers who play on the south-side of the fountain, but close enough to the arch that I can still hear the grand-piano-man playing while I read.

I thought of the Highline and how it winds through the east side of the city above the streets. As with the rest of the city, each season transforms this walk into a fresh new wonder. Canal Street came to mind and the vendors that sell strange Chinese fruits that look like objects out of a child's imagination.

New York's unique sights and sounds have quickly become familiar and comforting to me, but they still hold such wonder and mystery. I'm hooked. It is a thrill to call it home. Many say that one must live in New York for years before they truly become a New Yorker, but I don't know if I agree. Once the city gets inside of you, no place else has the same effect.

One belongs to New York instantly.

One belongs to it as much in five minutes

as in five years. ~ Tom Wolfe

Seat 15A and Matters of Consequence

 I love flying. I love the little catch in my stomach during take-offs. It also never fails to put life into perspective. I was reading Le Petit Prince as my plane took off towards Miami this morning. If you’ll recall my last post, I mentioned matters of consequence. As we left the runway, thousands of houses  were quickly shrinking in size. I thought about the people inside those houses. I wondered about their lives. I wondered what they were doing this Sunday morning. Were these now tiny houses busy with grown-up matters of consequence? What are the matters of consequence that fill their lives? That fill my life? Are they matters that are genuinely of consequence or have I bought into society’s definition of what qualifies as important?

I’m in row 15A. Although the man sitting beside me is hogging the armrests, but I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose. It’s a nice window seat. Below me, is the ocean and the North Carolina coastline. Because I am travelling for business, I was informed that I was on the upgrade list. As it turns out, I didn’t get the upgrade, I guess too many people were headed to Miami this morning, so I’m left to fend for myself amongst the commoners. Poor me. In a mere four rows ahead of me, behind the magical blue, see-through curtain, lies the cabin from which I was rejected. I bet this cup of coffee would have tasted better; I bet my packaged gingersnap cookies would have had been more gingery, I bet life is just greener on the other side of that curtain….

Two rows ahead of me, there’s a little girl that has been singing since the beverage service. Not in an obnoxious-get-me-off-this-plane kind of way, but in a cute remember-when-I-was-a-kid kind of way.  It reminds me of another section of Le Petit Prince:

When you tell [grown-ups] that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, “What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?” Instead, they demand: “How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?” Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything about him.

If you were to say to the grown-ups: “I saw a beautiful house made of rosy brik, with geraniums in the windows and doves on the roof,” they would not be able to get any idea of that house at all. You would have to say to them: “I saw a house that cost $20,000.” Then they would exclaim: “Oh, what a pretty house that is!”

Matters of consequence, essential matters. Children singing, tiny houses spotting the shoreline, shadows of clouds resting upon the ocean’s surface, that ocean stretching as far as my eyes can see in all directions, a life I love and reasons to smile, a wife whom I carry in my heart always no matter where I go or what I am doing. Let’s be present today and make room in our lives for the genuine matters of consequence. Namaste.