There was a time, not so long ago, when I stared at the sky.
Today I heard Debussy’s Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun, and I wondered about that time, when life stopped for a few minutes for contemplation of the clouds, or the azure blue world above.
I’ve tried to stare at the sky this week. Little glimpses, preferably through a magnolia or a pear blossom. Somehow it doesn’t seem right that there is so much beauty around us at a time of such suffering. Or perhaps I have it all wrong. How much worse would this be in the dead of winter? In a cold hard rain…
There was a time when I dreamed of moving my life forward. Of, say, teaching a literature class called A Year in New York at the New York Public Library, where I had even had a meeting about it. This was in October. The ideas were welcomed but, not surprisingly, there was no funding available. If I could find my own funding…
Which is how I found myself on the way to the gym one late October morning, thinking to myself, “Wow, it’s actually happening. I am taking steps to make a dream come true.”
And then I called my dad. And he didn’t answer the phone. This is itself was not unusual, as he often answered if I called ten minutes later. When this did not happen, I called the doorman.
And that is why I began to refer to life before October 24th and life after – I have seen “Pre- and Post-Covid references recently in the paper, as well. As I made my way from the subway station to his apartment, where he had fallen and was sitting in his armchair, thanks to the custodians in his apartment building, I got a call from my husband. His father had fallen on his driveway in Florida.
Needless to say, in the swirl of doctors, hospitals and rehabs, dreams completely evaporated. We were all simply in survival mode once more. What is the saying? “You make your plans and God laughs?”
And yet…it somehow became clear to me that, when the dust settled and everyone was getting the care they needed, there was no better time to squeeze in a little creativity here and there. After all, if not now, when?
The news gets worse every day; friends report elders are lying alone in hospitals, with no families nearby to comfort them. I’m so grateful the fathers are home and safe. The New York Times publishes an article on all the big and little losses, and how mourning is different for everyone and valid, no matter what.
And so, I go on. Listening to the music of dreams and spending a few minutes each day writing. And, quite surprisingly, I discovered I can still make A Year in New York happen, just not in the way I originally intended. Do I actually need funding to talk about the books of my home town?
Maybe…or maybe not.