The God Box

I work in a big solid square building known affectionately as the God Box. The building has this nickname because when it opened, so many Christian religions were housed here. Now Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) and Bike New York, and a lot of other nonprofits, are housed here too.

The best part of my workplace, besides my lunchtime Pilates and Yoga classes and my camarades in the cafeteria, are the monthly art openings.

Last night’s show was especially swank because the show profiled 12 artists from the Bronx. For each of the next five years, a new borough will be profiled. This year’s show is: the art of the 5: a shout out from the bronx.  As someone who studies and practices visual art, seeing the variety of these works inspired me. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard a rumor that a live snake lives in one of the window boxes of art. (A snake in the God Box? So appropriate!)

Here are some photos from last night’s party. Yes,  at the monthly art openings, the wine and beer flow, which is, I’ll admit, kind of a draw (except, probably for the AA folks). But the appetizers are lovely too. Last night there were crabcakes and steak bites. And as you can see below, I snagged that last salmon appetizer.

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The artists assemble for a photo while the sculpture Sirena sits idly by.

Hanging out with my coworkers in the lobby, schmoozing with artists, sipping wine, talking about art — kind of a perfect way to end a work day.

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My colleague, left, Liz Lee, talks to the artist, Jeanine Alfieri, who is the sculptor who creates casts from life.

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The artists from the Bronx gather.

Room for Bikes

With no fanfare a bike room opened in the basement of 475 Riverside Drive, the Interchurch Center.

Bikes now have their own bright room. (Thanks, I think, to the Rockefeller Brothers Foundation and Bike New York who have both moved into the building within the last five years.)

Bikes used to live in a corner overshadowed by the exhaust fumes of the cars. The bikes knew they were second class citizens to the cars. Heck, I knew. And I didn’t really want to admit tell my bike.

The bike racks were in a dusty corner. On more than one occasion, I bumped my head against the fire alarm and knocked my shin against my pedal getting the bike in or out.

I know I shouldn’t anthropomorphize my bike any more

— the way I anthropomorphize ice cream

https://mbcoudal.wordpress.com/2011/02/12/public-school-rules/

or my creativity https://mbcoudal.wordpress.com/2011/02/15/good-enough/.

Bikes aren’t human. They don’t get crushes on other bikes as I’ve previously reported.

See http://runningaground.wordpress.com/2010/07/15/damn-you-gary-fisher/

But I can’t stop. My bike is my child. As my real children get older, I still have my good old bike. It will live with me always. It needs its own room. As a teen it needs privacy. But, as a parent, I still need know what it is doing in there.

Like children, biking in New York City has grown up without me noticing. Mine used to be one of a few bikes in the basement. But now there are more than a dozen — more fun for my bike to play with.

A beer, a bra, then church

I’m full of ambition. This morning I resolved to work 10 minutes a day on my novel. (Only one more hour in this day to complete that goal.)

And here’s a new one. Visit a church a day.

I was sitting in Havana Central after work with my work spouse, sipping a beer tonite. I was showing him a new app for my phone, Church Finder. He and I have the same phone. We love our phones. We often talk about our phones when we get together. Fondly, we talk about their newest and best features, like the phones are our darling children. (My real children are still in the country while I am in the city, hence the ability to frequent a bar, a bra shop, a church, guilt-free.)

On Church Finder, you can request the nearest church to your location. So we searched for the nearest United Methodist Church.The address that showed up? 475 Riverside Drive. We laughed. Because, the United Methodist Church at 475 is our beloved place. But it’s not a church. The God Box at 475 is a church headquarters. It never would occur to me to list 475 as a church.

In any case, we two parted. I did a little shopping.

If you must know, I purchased a bra (okay, two!). One of the ladies at the Town Shop bra store once told me, “Honey, I know titties.” Going to a classic bra store is almost a religious experience. The saleswoman joined me in the small pink fitting room to give me just the perfect fit. I was giddy with gratitude, because I’m not easy to fit. But I am way off topic here. My point is —  I went for a beer, for a bra, then I needed something more.

I was right around the corner from All Angels’ Episcopal Church. Chris and I used to go there, in the late 90s when Hayden was a baby and I was pregnant. It was evangelical.

On one of our first visits there, I was so surprised to see that one of the ministers was Doug, an ex-crush, acting student friend of mine from NYU. The other pastor, Rev. Goode was lovely, earnest, English, I recall. Both of them were fabulous pastors — kind and smart. (I can’t really recall why we stopped going. At some point, the church felt too conservative, I think.)

Back to the present, I asked the gentleman at the All Angels’ front desk, “Could I sit in the sanctuary for 5 or 10 minutes?”

He was pleasant, but seemed surprised. He may have been closing up shop. It was around 8:30 ish.

“Well, there’s someone playing piano,” he said, apologetically.

“Great,” I said, enthusiastically.

As soon as I got into the sparse sanctuary, a young man in the black tee shirt stood up from behind the piano.

“I’ll leave you alone,” the young man said.

“No stay. You can play,” I said. I realized I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted him to play.

“No, that’s fine. I’ll come back.” He left.

So I was alone. The life-size wooden angel in the back of the church blows a trumpet. And the quiet was all around me — even though the church is just off Broadway. I sat in a back row. I closed my eyes. I remembered when I went to All Angels’. I remembered going through a very tough time. I felt comforted there. I just let the quiet wash over me. I remembered how one Sunday night when I was attending All Angels’, I went to serve dinner to the homeless. I was very pregnant with the twins, and one of the homeless guys made me sit down and he waited on me. I remember feeling so grateful for that fried chicken dinner with the homeless folks.

I didn’t want to stay too long. I didn’t want to keep the piano player from his music.

Sometimes a church doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. Sometimes a church feel like a place only for goody goodies, the well-dressed, the righteous, the connected, the believers. But I felt good sitting in the sanctuary of All Angels’.

Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the new bra, maybe it was the quiet angel near the door. Maybe it was my own past, that memory of a time I needed help and being back in a place where I found it.