Bobulate

“Are you alright?” It was Hanna calling my mobile phone in the middle of July. I had left my Brooklyn neighborhood for upstate New York that summer month “to write” and Hanna, my neighborhood dry cleaner was calling to check in on me — never having called before — worried that something had happened to me since she didn’t see me walking by daily with my dog.

This is New York.

It was on this day 23 years ago that I moved to New York City, intending only to stop here on my way to something else. It seems the city has become my something else, many times over, its pedestrians upon dog parks upon stoops upon protesters upon subways upon heat-lamped dinners becoming the backdrop and material of my world.

Today, I enjoyed looking back on some of my city accounting since:

• The city that is a goal
• New York City startups, and designing for people
• Where the water towers are
• OK and real New York
• In unicum
• Sudden rejuvenation
• There are roughly five New Yorks
• New York truths according to Gopnik
• Teammates
• This is New York
• The thing about long-term relationships

Am I alright? I am indeed, for I have known what it is to have been a New Yorker.

January has been Month One of something unknown. “All human beings are invited to have a friendship with the unknown,” shared poet and author David Whyte.

This is my formal acceptance of that invitation.

This month, I’ve intentionally wandered into opportunities whose dimensions are unknown. “How long will this last?” a friend asked, listening to what I’m doing. That is unknown, of course, I replied. That is the point of Month One, and all months going forward.

I accept.

I escaped yardwork. Weeding, raking, planting, raking, sweeping — no matter the job, I could worm out of it. When all four kids and two parents spread out into each corner of the yard on a Saturday morning, I strode across the lawn with an excuse.

It’s not that I disliked invasive species, it was the act of being committed against my will that was the issue. (I was also 13 years old and disliked nearly everything.) I had to demonstrate my independence.

Today, I find excuses to spend nearly all my time in my own garden. I chase down opportunities to weed, find excuses to plant, I rake, I sweep, I stare at dirt, and simply observe small bits of life in between. All states bring equal joy: green, grey, wound, discordant, bloomed, browned, fallen — all owning their place, all participating. Without participation, there would not be the opportunity for experience. John Dewey reminds us:

Such happiness as life is capable of comes from the full participation of all our powers in the endeavor to wrest from each changing situations of experience its own full and unique meaning.

To see the greens, the reds, the browns, and love it all is what is worth staying for. In our work, to love both the dark side of one’s workmanship and the shining side of one’s craft is perhaps to experience one’s true self.

To have the integrity to respect all states — and participate in humanity — might be one definition of grace. How we use it is up to us.

Knowing when to stop is not exactly the same as knowing what to start. Determining what’s worthy is harder than simply finding something interesting.

That’s John, long-time supporter of my ideas, who wrote these two powerful sentiments years ago upon the restart of writing on this website after a long hiatus. Years later, as I emerge from what does indeed feel like an extended dormancy, I’m still seeking clarity on what’s worthy. But what I do know: time to start, it is. These handful of words mark an official commitment to an unofficial restart of writing. While in the past, I’ve collected signoffs, talked about the etiquette of endings, and thought deeply about quitting, I’m now focused on beginnings. To new chapters. And to the intentional organization of starting.

Thank you, as ever, John.

Always go for a run even if it’s raining.

Enjoy the journey

never forget to play

and feel the joy of life.

Jump for joy when you’re happy.

Surround yourself with the people you love.

Live in the moment,

have boundless energy.

Listen more than you talk.

But when you do talk, speak from the heart.

It’s never too late to learn.

Look for the best in everyone

and be loyal.

Love unconditionally

and with all of your light, all of the time.

When things feel complex, murky, convoluted, dark, lonely, we have the unrequited companionship of our dog friends to lead us. Here, lessons from Pépite and Jolyn.

If you spend your life sitting in a cubicle and passing papers, one day is bound to blend unmemorably into the next — and disappear. That’s why it’s important to change routines regularly, and take vacations to exotic locales, and have as many new experiences as possible that can serve to anchor our memories. Creating new memories stretches out psychological time, and lengthens our perception of our lives.

That’s Jonathan Foer in Moonwalking with Einstein. As someone who deeply trusts routine, I admit to using it. It’s not routine I love actually, but what it begets. Routine gives way to novelty. To variation. Without homogeneity, there would be no variation. It is the mechanics of sameness in some areas of our life that allows us wild diversity in others.

Foer goes on to say, “Monotony collapses time; novelty unfolds it.” Without the foundation of monotony, we would not have the confidence to diverge.

As we age together, New York and I hold one another up when we fall down; we finish one another’s sentences.

When we have successes together, we celebrate in the wild forests of the park, along the carousel under the bridge, in the urban ocean, next to the little red lighthouse near the north point.

See also:
This is New York

We celebrate together, the city and me, as we protect and trust our relationship like no other. I arrived, looking to the city for answers, solitude, assignment, reward, punctuation to a sentence not yet written. The city, in turn, returned untempered possibilities.

The thing about long-term relationships is: you have to hold on.

“You only get to keep what you refuse to let go of.”

That’s Jonathan Safran Foer, in his new novel, Here I Am.

Memories — more than any other capacity — inspire us, ground us, teach us, and revisited years later, provide us guidance home.

See also:
Margins

We keep coming home to memories to try to look again. What memory represents, not clearly, but in full gray tones, is hope. Hope that life moves on, that forward motion is inevitable, that we learn, that we will be.

One can only hope that one’s senses, intuitions, become sharpened over time such that they benefit the entirety of a life. Sometimes people overlap only briefly and don’t get the benefit of that acuity. But the wisdom those people impart can leave residue that brings light to an entire life.

Memories are a starting point for hope. Where they lead is up to us.