Tag: New York City

Retreat

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This is where I am right now. I am on a retreat. Retreat means surrender. And I surrender.

New York City’s winter requires an antidote. How about a warm nurturing room on the third floor of a mansion? Forty-five minutes from the city, the retreat center at Stony Point, New York is totally worth it.

The air smells fresh. The snow is still white. The food is good. I am here for 24 hours.

I am in a house full of women. Some are a part of a Loving Hands knitting and crocheting group. And I am part of a group of nine women from Rutgers Church. In the afternoon, we sat in a circle in the meditation room. In the evening, we sat in front of the fire and laughed.

I love to retreat. I would like to surrender every week. Or every month. Or at least every season. I see the need to get away as restorative and necessary, especially for working mothers. The cost for 3 meals and a single room in the mansion is $115, but the result is sanity. It is not too high a price to pay.

http://www.stonypointcenter.org/

I find I can can thrive on the island of Manhattan so long as every once in a while I can go to Stony Point or Westport, New York or to Manchester, Vermont. Getting away makes going home manageable.

Wave Hill, a Treasure Box

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It’s a best-kept NYC secret, bustling with life. The bustling is done by the Cabbage White Butterflies who never got the memo that summer’s officially over now that school’s started. No, the butterflies don’t know. They flit in Riverdale on September 11th at Wave Hill, an easy-going, beautiful, educational, art/nature place.

All the things you love — art AND nature — wrapped into one FREE afternoon — Yes, free! The kids and I arrived at 11:55 am, just in time to discover that the center is free until noon on Saturdays. (Should I mention that the free morning is thanks to Target? Yes, I will because they also support the bustling hip, trendy MoMA Friday nights! Thanks, Target!)

The family art sessions are always fun. Always. I did wonder as we stepped into the big, dark cottage and saw all the toddlers and elementary school kids wielding glue sticks whether my three (freshly pressed) middle schoolers would still dig the magic of family art and the loose and loving guidance on some funky crafty nature project. But hooray, they still dug it! (H. did mention, “I never want to come back here in my entire life.” But rest assured, he’s big on hyperbole and I, who am also given to exaggeration, stayed strong. I replied, “We’re coming every Saturday for the rest of your life.”)

The first assignment for the family art session? Friendly and gorgeous Ilse instructed, “Take a walk around and collect dead nature specimens. Then, return to the cottage and make little accordion books that will fit neatly into your little decorated nature treasure boxes.”

I remembered around Thanksgiving one year at Wave Hill, we made corn husk dolls, taught by young Native Americans. Another time we looked at pictures of Matisse’s cut outs and tried to cut out flowers likewise.

The leader then was a lovely guy named Noah, who Ilse informed me retired in the Spring. He was always gentle and enthusiastic and welcoming. Ilse said, “I’ll send your regards to Noah.”

But I don’t think he specifically knew me or my kids. I think he was just one of those souls who treat everyone like a long-lost friend. (Any way, Thanks Noah!)

The new staff, Ilse, is, like Noah and wonderful Martha Borrero, who is still there, welcoming, glad to see you when you walk into the space.

As usual, we pushed the boundaries of time. Martha rang a bell to let us know that it was 1 pm and family art time was ending. We were still creating, gluing, drawing, cutting out shapes, filling our little nature boxes. We finally tore ourselves away.

We ate at the café outside. I love museum cafes. Museum cafes are a bit pricey but delicious. And eavesdropping is so much fun. The guy behind us was saying, “I have time. If I don’t find a girlfriend right now, it’s fine. I have to pay my bills, get out of debt, become more responsible.”

The kids talked about whether burning money is a federal crime. I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. As my 4th grade teacher used to say, “What am I? A walking encyclopedia?”

We departed by way of the gift shop, where we bought local honey and honey sticks, the kids’ favorite sweet treat.

September 11th is a very tough day for people like me who love New York City. The reason we love and live in NYC is that there are magical gems throughout the city — places like Wave Hill, full of butterflies and breezes, views of the Palisades and the Hudson River. What’s not to love?

Next year’s 9/11, the 10th anniversary, is going to be hard. I’m already planning to take the kids to Wave Hill again. If you want to go with me, let me know.

http://www.wavehill.org/gardens/

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Saying Nothing

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The Jamaican horn-player was testifying to a handful of people. He wore a yellow polo shirt. “It’s easier to build someone up than to criticize,” he said.

The church seemed on its last legs. On 57th between 9th and 10th, the church had peeling paint and rotating fans. It was super hot.

I think it was a Brazilian Church because the Brazilian flag was draped over a pew in the back and a sign outside listed a 7 pm Brazilian church service. I wandered in around 7:50.

I had been walking in the city after my writing class. My classmates and teacher liked this new writing project, A Church A Day, especially they liked me mentioning the people I met.

I had reported in class that many of the men who guarded the church doors, the guys who allowed me access to the sanctuaries, seemed just one step away from the soup kitchen themselves. The church caretakers had seen it all but were were still good-hearted and hard-working.

The Jamaican speaker at the Brazilian church last night was no exception. “I play in the subway. That’s my job. When the police come up to me, I move on. Then they’ll say, ‘Weren’t you just here yesterday?’ ‘I have to make a living,’ I say. It’s tough to make a living as a musician. I have 3 students. I pray for 20.”

At one point he asked the congregation, “What does faith mean?” A few people called out, “Jesus’s love.” “Forgiveness.” He waited. I said nothing. He said, “You in the back, say anything.”

That was me — the one in the back. My tongue was tied. I didn’t feel comfortable speaking. I wanted to say something, to help him out. But I wanted to give the right answer. I liked his sermon. But I didn’t know what faith meant.

I smiled. I hoped that I looked European, perhaps slightly non-English speaking. He moved on. I couldn’t help thinking he was disappointed in me.

Then later he asked, “Who is there for you? No matter what? Who will always be there?”

I shouted out, “Your mother!” A few heads turned. He did not acknowledge my answer. I think the question was rhetorical.  The correct answer may have been God and not mother. I’m not sure. I slunk down in the pew in embarrassment, feeling ridiculous — unable to answer when called on, shouting out the wrong answer when I was not called on.

It’s hard to understand the rhythms of worship. There were several Hallelujahs shouted out during the sermon. It seemed okay for everyone else to yell out randomly. Like when he’d ask, “How am I doing? This is my first sermon. But it won’t be my last.” “Hallelujah!” someone yelled.

Even though I felt inept, I dug this guy. I liked, “Knock and the door will be opened. But you have to knock. No one is going to come knocking on your door.” And he said, “For me the ultimate sin is laziness. You need faith, honesty and hard work.” “Hallelujah!” someone called out.

At 8:15 the service was over. I wanted to tell the speaker I liked his message. But I felt shy and didn’t want to engage. Maybe they’d try to get me to come again. I couldn’t commit. I want to visit a lot more churches. I walked back out into the hot summer night.

View from the City Bench

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It’s no secret that I’m a bench sitter. I like to watch the passing parade. I like not having an agenda.

Our daughters were in the school production of Pajama Game together and we had half an hour to kill before heading to the school auditorium. So on Friday night, my friend Trisha and I sat and watched the people go by. We were positioned in front of the lamp post near the Museum of Natural History.

Trisha was knitting. She was my decoy.

We loved watching all the kids in strollers and the dogs on their leashes. I put the camera very nonchalantly between my knees. Here are a handful of  the photos that I took of the passing people (and dogs). walking by. This is the view from the NYC bench on a Friday Night on the Upper West Side.

New Yorkers and the Rain

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New York is for walking.  Yes, the buses and subways are fine. Yes, a bike sails through traffic. Yes, you can find parking if you drive. And yes, cabs are ubiquitous.

But New York City is scaled for the walker. When tourists visit New York, they’re always surprised by how much walking they do. A New Yorker wouldn’t mind walking 10 blocks. But you can tell the tourists — they’re the ones beginning to flag.

New Yorkers are more physically fit than people in other parts of the country. All the walking is good for kids. Within a few blocks, you’ll find our grammar school, our doctor, our grocery store, our church, our gym, and our park. What more could you ask for?

Okay, the downside of all of this walking? When it rains, which it’s been doing a lot lately, there’s no way to avoid the elements. Maybe in the suburbs, you can duck into your car right from your garage, but in New York, you can’t avoid the weather.

I hate umbrellas. They slow you down. And they take up too much public space — especially in the stairwells leading into the subway. Also, an umbrella takes up too much hand space. I suppose you could wear one of those umbrella hats, but they’ve never really caught on and I’m not going to be the first.

The best way to dress for NYC in the rain is to wear a baseball cap. Pull it low. You might want to keep on that silver sticker. You might want to keep the bill wide. (Although I still like to scrunch up the bill.)

Baseball season is only a couple of weeks away. So you can choose — a Mets or Yankees cap? So many places sell them. But beware — there’s a fashion trend in baseball caps that I’ve been noticing in NYC. The Chicago Cubs cap. How did that get here? New Yorkers are funny.

Soft Blanket of Snow

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The snow is like a soft blanket. It quiets the city. Like White Out erasing my screen, erasing these words as I type them. We have had the crunch of salt beneath our boots for a week. It felt like the salt was disappointed. It did not get to do its magic “make the snow vanish” act. And now the snow is piling up and the salt won’t be enough. It will need additional reinforcements. Poor beleaguered salt, can never win.

I have to run to the store now. To buy more hot cocoa. The kids are waking up. They are looking out the window. Eyes round. “Look out your window!” they call to one another.

I have to put the sleds by the front door. And find matching pairs of gloves.

I want to curl up in a soft blanket of snow. I want to put on a movie, one of those Netflix films I never get to.  Make popcorn. But I will be out in the blizzard. By the big hill in Riverside Park, watching the kids. Or maybe we’ll go to Central Park.

And, of course, I will take some runs down a hill too. If I can wrest the sleds from their clutches. Then we will come home and I will make them hot cocoa. I will try to make good memories of the blizzard of 2010. But wait. I am not in charge of their memories. I did not make this storm. The blizzard just blanketed the city. I did not have to do anything. Just look out my window.

Where Is that Harbor Seal?

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On Saturday, I ran to the end of the 70th Street pier in Riverside Park. As I passed the kayak launch site, empty now, I wished that I could see that harbor seal again. The one with the one droopy whisker and the big black eyes.

About a year ago, Max, the doorman, told me a seal was hanging out at the boat basin. At dusk, I took the kids to see it. Our photo didn’t turn out, but there it was at the boat basin. The next week it was at the kayak launch site. It was yawning and stretching. Just lookin’ around.

We dialed 3-1-1. The animal rescue or marine biology people (or whomever 3-1-1 connected us to) said they would not come rescue it, because – from what we described, it was healthy.

After all, it was a harbor seal in a harbor. No matter that the harbor was the Hudson River.

On my weekend run this time, the only wildlife I saw were squirrels, ducks, and, I’m not sure they count – dogs. I didn’t even see one of the red-tailed hawks near the 80th street playground. They’re so vast you’d think they could swoop down and, with their talons, grab a toddler.

The best part of running in New York City is the wildlife. And when you run again, you remember.

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