The sun never knew how great it was until it hit the side of a building
Louis Kahn, architect
Hello everyone! I’m so glad you’re here.
Happy Earth Day! I’m sitting outside (with sunscreen) at a local café today because it’s too beautiful to write anywhere else. How are you?
On Sunday night after an afternoon of brunching with friends, sending my mother off on her Amtrak, and teaching a low key zoom class, I walked to the park for sunset. The light had been pouring in through my windows the entire class, halo-ing me on the computer screen, dappling my plants in shades of green. It happened to be Easter and 4/20, a mashup which felt surprisingly fitting for the times. In bed later, I scrolled through my phone, people getting high on Jesus at church, people wearing bunny ears and mesh getting high in Washington Square Park.
I took a tiny puff from a joint, (my preferred dosage these days) threw a blanket and journal in my tote, and headed out. I was immediately pleased with my choice to leave the house as the birdsong crystallized around me the second I stepped outside, clear as glass. I passed families coming home from easter picnics, an older woman birdwatching- or daydreaming?- on a bench, low-riding dogs perking their ears at the ice cream truck bell.
The park was as beautiful as I thought it would be. I found a spot on the hill overlooking the water, the same one Robin used to somersault her body down in her youth when I’d watch all 65 porky pounds of her defying gravity only to run back to the top and repeat the whole thing. In later years, the somersaulting was swapped for sitting and stillness, an occasional raised eyebrow at a squirrel. We watched the world together; now I was watching it for her.
Below me, a husky howled to its owners begging for snacks. To my right, a girl perched with a book under a magnolia tree. We all had the same idea, enjoying our surroundings separately but together, watching the sun transform into a giant apricot orb over the Hudson. This park is a gift, I kept thinking, grateful to have it as my backyard.
The light is perfect, I texted my friends, and then…anytime dusky light is on my face I’m like, “life is so good!”
I’m sure they were chuckling at me from their couches, my texts evident of a pleasantly mild high. Two round-bellied robins appeared near my blanket, one with macaroni penguin-esque feathers on its head. Hi Robs, I whispered, thanks for saying hello. Robins are as commons as pigeons this spring, I know. Students text me photos often of a robin in a tree, on the sidewalk, through their windows. Still, I can’t help but see each one as a totem of her. Look for me and I’ll appear everywhere, it’s as if she’s saying. It’s Occam’s razor, so obvious it doesn’t seem real.
As I’m writing this, a neighbor who I adore walks up with her dog Callie, the 11-year-old pitbull she adopted last year. Callie is shaped like an ottoman, even more so than Robin. I remember meeting her last spring when my neighbor was planning only to foster her then fell in love. They are doing their slow daily lap, a pace I know well. Callie has chiclet teeth and a snowy face. Being in her presence makes me want to cry. I get this feeling anytime I’m around an elderly dog, honestly. It’s just all too pure.
Bye girl! I yell to her, sending her off with a butt pat. You’re an angel! She looks at me, all gummy teeth and white eyebrows, wobbling away with exactly zero urgency.
*
I spent the rest of the weekend bopping around the city with my mom. If you took class with me in person, you likely saw her in the front row, pint-sized and smiling with pride. We did all the usual things we like to do together: thrifting, watching movies in bed, putting ridiculous filters on our face and wheeze-laughing after, walking with no destination in mind. My mom is vegan and gets really excited for all the food options available to her in New York, so we also went to Peacefood and The Botanist, Van Leeuwen for vegan strawberry shortcake.
During our ice cream outing on Saturday, we intersected with an anti-Trump protest marching on Columbus Avenue. It was energizing to see so many young people holding signs and gathering together. Twisted Sister played on a giant speaker, we’re not gonna take it anymoooo-oooooooooooore! blasting as they marched past. Besides a single eye-roll my mom noticed from one woman, the entire neighborhood seemed buoyed by the protest. Cab drivers honked horns, people came out of storefronts to clap, shop-owners screamed wooooo! in support. Only the tourists looked slightly bewildered, unsure what to make of the whole scene. Internally, I hoped it reminded them that despite half of the country voting for him, there is another half holding the line of resistance, refusing to look away.
I’ve been talking a lot about holding multiple truths in class lately, vacillating between acknowledging the state of the world while living inside it, the confronting tenderness of a perfectly red poppy poking its head out of the grass alongside photos of a modern-day concentration camp our tax dollars fund. Truthfully, this theme has percolated for awhile now, since before I started writing this newsletter. I can’t remember a time I haven’t talked about the dichotomy of both/and, it’s concurrent honesty and fragility, the pervasiveness of it all.
*
Have you heard about the New York Public Library’s impending release of hundreds of pages of correspondence between Joan Didion and her late husband John Dunne? Apparently there are 336 boxes of never-before-seen material ranging from drafts to essays to personal letters she never intended anyone but him to see. I have mixed feelings about the release, the creative part of me curious to have access to this voyeurism, the human (and somewhat protective) part of me feeling it unfair that she never agreed to this intimacy. Other writers feel similarly, as penned in Lynn Steger Strong’s beautiful essay recently released in The Atlantic. She compares this exposé of Didion to seeing her grandmother without makeup when her grandfather was very ill, and how uncomfortable her grandmother seemed to be exposed in that way, even it was an exposition that seemed benign to others.
My Nana Marilyn, who I wrote about last week, was similar to this; I will never un-hear her tell me that even if her house was in flames, she’d make sure to swipe on lipstick before running out.
I don’t really know why I’m bringing all of this up- the beauty/terror confluence, Didion’s archives, sharing publicly vs. purposefully withholding- but I suppose it all seems possibly related. To live in 2025 is to have other people’s opinions thrown at you constantly. We live in an echo chamber of unsolicited opinions, and that makes for some wacky reverb in the universe. *Please note: I’m aware this newsletter is in and of itself an unsolicited opinion (though I like to think of it more as a weekly meandering) - so thank you for listening :D
I took a beautiful yoga class yesterday in Chelsea where the teacher talked of growing up Catholic and Sikh, two contrasting religions that she found middle ground between and later in life has recently begun exploring again. She shared a recording of Pope Francis, who died yesterday, speaking about tolerance and activism, how his beliefs challenged long-held traditions of the Catholic church and paved a way for more modern thinking. My paternal grandparents were Catholic peace activists; in high school, on assignment to interview someone we knew who was a veteran, I asked my grandfather, who was drafted into World War II, what his proudest moment of his experience was.
There’s no pride in war, Emma. My proudest moment was being released.
His words have stuck with me. Now, twenty years later, they feel even more relevant.
I wish you moments of peace, presence, and beauty. It is Taurus season, after all. Go kiss the ground! (But not Katy Perry style) Celebrate our beautiful earth in some small way that makes you feel connected to all the symbiotic energy around you. It is there, an invisible current holding us steady, even if we sometimes forget. It is every blown leaf and setting sun, every branch turned to bud turned to bloom, it is you, and those who came before you, and those who will remain long after.
Day by day, onward.
See you next Tuesday,
Emma
my friend Katie’s stoop, a west village staple, with banana bread
and chai!
chaotic/cute
Stay supple, everyone. xo.
My vimeo on-demand library no longer exists, as I’d been wanting to switch it to arketa (my current platform for zoom classes) for awhile now. You can find my brand new library- think of it like a refurbishing of old furniture- directly HERE. It is categorized into vinyasa, slow flow + meditation, specialty classes, and a special Robin collection that features classes where she makes a meatball appearance. Just as before, you have the option to rent or buy single classes, or subscribe for unlimited access. I will be uploading 1 new class weekly.
I have also embedded the library permanently on my website, under the “class schedule & bookings/on-demand libary” page (just scroll down), which you can access HERE.
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Ultimately, your readership is what means the most to me. However you have shown up, I am so grateful :)
Hi Emma! I came across your Substack via COJ’s “favorite thing about me” post. I had remembered your home tour and Robin, especially. My heart broke a little for you then hearing of her diagnosis. Of course, I had to check on how she was doing and ended up here.
I spent last night re-reading most all of your posts. I lost my own soul-dog, Pepe, seven weeks ago. I’d been fruitlessly searching for solace online, and then I found your essays. I am so, so grateful for you, for your words. The poems, the grounding in nature, the yoga wisdom, all of it, has been so very helpful. Your love and grief for Robin helped me see my own loss more clearly, and while I’m devastated, I’m so hopeful, too.
Thank you so very much.
Hugs,
Caley