Living-Deliberately.com

For the past year I’ve run a company called Blogging With Flair. A good portion of my clients are professional speakers affiliated with NSA and I recently traveled to New York City to attend their annual conference, the fulfillment of a vision a friend had for my business before I knew to dream it, and the location of a rebirth of sorts for me, bringing in new business yes, but also a re-energized spirit. What follows is a compilation of the writing I did while in my free moments on the trip.

My hotel was on the upper west side, on a street that looked straight from the set of Sesame Street, with rows of cheery brownstones with walk-up steps. The hotel itself was small, dark, and hot…so stifling that at first I felt tight and claustrophobic just entering the room. The hallways were winding, maze-like, and it took intention on my part to not imagine little bogey men lurking around ever corner. My room could not have been bigger than 10×10 and that space, it accommodated a bed, desk, dresser, sink and small fridge. The theme seemed to be “tropical island”, with a palm tree lamp and salmon/teal bedding…I thought that comical coming from Florida to urban New York City. Bathrooms were shared, down the hall…tiny but clean room smelling slightly of lingering cigarette smoke. Smoking wasn’t allowed in the rooms and the tell-tale signs of stealth hits wafted in here and there. I loved it all…the whole place had a European feel to it and naturally seemed to emphasize that the real adventure, the real discoveries lay outside. At once I felt like an indulgent and spoiled American for complaining about size and space, when this was clean and adequate, and eagerly I looked outside, to the living organism of this great city that never sleeps.

From that hotel I had the extreme pleasure of walking down quieter streets than I’d encounter later in the day, with my move to Times Square. In the early light of morning I headed east, towards the park, seeing ahead the lush contrast of trees against pavement. Instinctively I could feel the organization of NY’s grid system…rationale pervades and lends a sort of orderly freedom spirit to everything. It’s hard to get lost in a square and I felt secure that I could easily find my way back. In the park I saw Elm trees (my first? They were blighted and killed off everywhere I’ve been before) and took time to read the plaques below the literary statuary scattered amid the trees.

My first steps into the park were at Strawberry Fields. I walked past a man who looked like he was well supplied to spend most of his time on the street, backpack and pile of personal items not far from him on the bench. When I passed him, he said, “Oh you are beautiful!”. I smiled, a little embarrassed, and walked over to the “Imagine” memorial for Lennon, sprinkled with it’s floral petal peace sign. The street man, still looking at me, said, “My word! You are even more beautiful than I first thought!” I had to giggle, shameless flattery or not, because any woman likes to hear things like that, and I knew my step was lighter as I walked forward into the growing sunshine. In the park there was the largest variety of dogs being walked, all of them seemingly purebred animals, and many, many friendly faces happy to offer directions or tourist tips. I had yet to glimpse even a hint of “crabby New Yorker”…they were all wonderful!

On the corner of two streets (that I wasn’t paying much attention to, feeling quick familiarity with the grid layout), I stepped into a bakery, and feeling it was too early for a cupcake, bought instead a buttered bagel and cup of coffee. Buoyantly, I carried my bag back to my temporary nest of a room, smiling at shopkeepers hosing off their patch of sidewalk. Even in the morning hours, the occasional car horn would sound, scattering pigeons, sending them fluttering awkwardly skyward until they could dip back down for a fresh handout.

Back in my room I opened my little bagel, remembering that bagels are NY specialty, and feeling glad I’d chosen it instead of something from the rows of flaky pastries keeping them company in the bakery.
And in that next moment I learned, that if a food can ever know yearning, that every bagel surely must aspire to be a new york bagel. This bagel, so delicately toasted that it was not the least bit hard and crunchy, but rather softly warmed and golden, with a thin layer of sunshiny butter melted across the top and not sinking down, became honestly the best bread product I’ve ever put into my mouth. This bagel was robust yet tender, sort of like what the warm hug from an old and trusted lover must be like, the sort of comforting affection that leads to smiling kisses, not afraid of a crumb or two at the corner of each mouth.

With the coffee it became a truly spectacular breakfast and I felt empathy for the many new yorkers away from home, whom I’ve heard lament over the inability to get a decent bagel anywhere else in the world. I most certainly will not ever give a bagel from another city even a sideways glance; there would be no point.

Later in the day, when the real purpose of my trip had gotten underway, having experienced the subway to and from, I was amid the hustle of Times Square, with it’s seemingly endless array of lights and advertisements and faces. But still this was a joy, completely different than the morning, yet still unique and valued…like Snow White and Rose Red. There is so much variety in the human scope…on those streets I saw slender students with bright eyes and theater shirts, older couples, their bodies rounded and comfortable walking side by side in sensible shoes, beautiful man-boys with manicured eye brows and European-styled bags, tiny framed Asian girls in slip dresses, Mexicans, Indians, and even Sudanese. And the accents! Closing one’s eyes in Times Square is probably not the wisest thing to do but eliminating the visual distinction and just listening to the varietal cacophony was worth the risk, even if for just a few moments, and the blind too, know such color.

When the rain came, umbrellas popped up like mushrooms, bobbing en masse down wide sidewalks. I hadn’t brought one and didn’t care; the city rain felt good on my skin. I knew I smiled as I walked and only sometimes dodged the puddles. This day had been a gift, a window on the world, and glimpse of how broad my life had become.

That afternoon began conference sessions in padded chairs, lots of eye contact, conversations with strangers, looking for opportunity and growth. Information overload began. This hotel was lovely in all the ways the other was not…spacious with high thread count sheets and feather duvets, glass elevators and shiny things all around. At dinner I met Doug, who also joined me for the opening night concert, where NSA Rocks to…(wait for it)…bagpipes. Not kidding…the pipers were having a 50th year anniversary so the concert opened with about a hundred of them piping Toura loura loura, followed by Riverdance wannabe cloggers, classic rock songs, and lots and lots of speakers dressed up like karaoke rockers in big wigs with inflatable guitars. Even as I lived it I knew it was the kind of night best experienced rather than written about, words being somehow inadequate to capture the fun wackness of it all.

In three days time I’d become familiar with every bagel bakery within a few blocks radius of the hotel. Every bakery has a glass case crammed full of creamy canoli, flaky pastries of all shapes, huge donuts freshly made that morning, and bagels, bagels, bagels. I knew a lot of my conference mates were spending the entirety of their time within the hotel, unless they ventured out for a show or a party, but I didn’t understand that. Outside life continually burgeoned, no two steps alike, and yet within hours I’d started to feel at home, in my element, of sorts. Inside I met some great people, challenging thinkers, risk takers, and somewhere, inside, outside, or somewhere in between, a rebirth of a kind started taking shape. I saw sunshine peeking around the corner of sky scrapers, I looked past city lights into the faces of people I didn’t know, I listened to stories of people who’ve gone through transformative journeys both like and unlike mine, and somewhere in there, I got my “happy” back. It became easier to recognize the kind of attendee that was eaten with negativity and cannibalistic competitiveness, see past them, ignore their yapping desire to see how they can use the next person in line, and instead gravitate toward the ones who smiled back, who conversed, who felt confident enough to take a moment out and sit on a bench, sigh, and talk.

At the end of the days, my body had had enough of espresso shot energy boosts, exercises in extroversion, and distance from the little voices in my life that say, “I love you Mommy”. Eagerly I boarded the plane and flew home to the life I know, my little camper with ordinary bedding, my paintings, and my incense. The southern sky was clear and starry when we landed, the air warm to the naked touch even past midnight. The breath I inhaled was deep, the first I’ve taken that was rooted in the peace of knowing that I can bloom in this replanting. My gypsie season is winding down but only after convincing me of the largeness of life, the beauty of people everywhere, and that hope is a renewable resource. Broken wings mend; I’m living the daily truth of it.

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