We start out as little bits of disconnected dust
-Naomi Shihab Nye
Hello everyone! I’m so glad you’re here.
Hi! I’m sitting outside because the weather lately has been gorgggg. It’s that end-of-summer-not-quite-fall air, pleasant and brisk. How are you?
I honestly don’t have much to report. I had a tickle in my throat Monday night and by Tuesday morning realized my vacation glow was quickly succumbing to something much less glamorous- I spent the week laying down with rolled up toilet paper on my nightstand, too congested to think.
I am (mostly) on the other side of it now. That initial day of starting to feel better is like reaching the top of a mountain, or kissing someone for the first time. You can’t believe it’s actually happening. Everything is momentarily good.
Contrary to some people I know, I don’t mind sick days. I watched a lot of TV and took long baths and made nourishing food, meandering around my apartment and even deciding to finally wash the rug I’ve had on my living room floor for five years. It was bittersweet, as some of Robin’s fur is undoubtedly a part of that fabric now, but the results have been startling: my rug is glistening. I arrive home from work each night stunned by how bright the white areas are again, how I can walk across it without feeling grit under my feet.
During the wash cycle, I was pretty romanced by my gorgeous bare wood floors. It reminded me of when I first moved into my apartment and had barely any furniture. Robin and I would sit in the middle of the living room eating takeout with a single fan blowing air on us, the room sparse except for my plants, some candles, and a stick of incense burning in the window sill. It was a magical time full of shock and awe, my life a blank canvas I could decorate however I wished.
Five years later, I still catch myself looking around my space stunned at all that has passed through here. Robin’s life and death, romantic partners and business ideas, paint colors, flower arrangements, hopes, dreams, and wishes. Seeing the bare floor momentarily made me reconsider if I should buy a smaller rug, but I opted to keep it for now and instead purchased some floating wooden shelves I can hang on the living room wall, anything to create the sensation of newness.
Upon hearing I was sick, my sweet neighbor who makes healthy tinctures dropped off some immunity bombs in front of my door, as well as a plastic bag of echinacea supplements. I also chugged elderberry syrup religiously each morning, and ginger tea each night. Mostly it was sleep, texting my friends unflattering selfies from bed with a swollen face, and browsing every odd and end of the internet.
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I have risen, thank god. I’m stunned that this weekend is Labor Day, though that’s always how it goes. You blink and summer is over, all that lies ahead beckoning you as fall asleep each night. I feel excited for the rhythms of Fall, uncertain but hopeful for the new energy it will bring. Summer has been pleasant and slow but I’m craving change, doing things differently than I am used to doing them. My nervous system likes routine but thrives on frequent shifts, and though I am currently unsure what those shifts looks like, I am committed to attempting to cultivate them often.
While getting ready this morning, I listened to The Daily’s episode on the protein craze. People and brands are trying to cram as much protein as humanly possible into the smallest amount of food, optimization over everything. I texted my friend Hallie last night that I wish I was the type of person who could go home at the end of a long day and optimize my relaxation time, instead immediately laying down to watch TV. I used to be someone that read for hours; now it’s easier for me to read only if I am between two states: on a moving vehicle during my daily commute, or on a train taking me to another city. Times have changed and so have our brains, though I can’t help but consider the way I felt in Cape Cod recently, completely present with my surroundings, interested in nothing but the moment.
Much of why I love living in New York is that I can be alone here while still immersed in a bigger collective energy. There is so much brewing creatively at all times. I can walk around the Met on my day off, or hear live jazz in Central Park while commuting to teach a private client. Even on days I’m feeling eh, I can look out my window and watch the comings and goings of my neighbors, immediately- if only fleetingly- comforted by these daily rhythms that aren’t mine but I am still somehow a part of. I hear myself tell people I won’t live in New York forever, but the thought of leaving makes my insides contract.
Ironically, so does the thought of staying too long.
*
I’m a bit all over the place today. I saw a funny meme on instagram last night that said:
Every august without fail is like I will give you some of the most beautiful golden summer moments of your life but also you will be thinking about childhood and loss constantly. It will always be either 5pm or 2am.
Does this ring true for anyone else? Something about this time of year conjures deep nostalgia, equally sweet and melancholy. I’m recently in touch with a person I met when I was 19 and seeing myself through his eyes now, 17 years later, is like time travel.
You were never subtle, he tells me, and I laugh. We are not in love but have a firm respect for the other, likely a result of time and history, mutual adoration. My friends romanticize our connection and I assure them it’s not like that, but what do I know. Weirder things have happened. Still, I spend a lot of time contemplating my future. I told my therapist last week that one of my biggest fears is my life looking exactly the same in ten years as it does now. She tilted her head at me, kind and reassuring.
Emma, how could it possibly look the same when you are doing so much work to create mirrors in your life?
I know it’s true. The only people who don’t change are the ones committed to staying the same.
I look at my camera roll from this time last year. There’s a photo of me with two dear friends outside a restaurant in Brooklyn, one of dappled light on my plants, a corgi in a tote bag on the subway. I don’t know why I keep taking pictures of the same things, but actually, I do; I am comforted by the day to day minutiae. And though all of us take far too many photos nowadays, I’m grateful that I have them. I will never not be dazzled by my friends, the way light hits plants, a rogue dog in a bag.
I have to teach soon. I still have some lingering fatigue, so I’m going to spend my last hour at home supine on my bed before emerging out into the world again.
Sometimes I’ll chat with a student in class and they’ll mention something I wrote in my newsletter in conversation and I realize how touched I am that they read it. I know my mom and sister read every week, but writing can sometimes feel like shouting into the void, wondering if anyone is hearing your call. This is not to conjure compliments (though I am not immune to praise. Is anyone??) but to express how lucky I feel that a tiny corner of the universe is willing to hear me. So if you’re reading this, thank you. I hope dipping into a slice of my life helps you feel more seen in yours.
Looking forward to sharing more next Tuesday. Hopefully it’ll be a slightly more exciting dispatch.
Have a beautiful week, everyone!
Emma
A few nice things:
this poem, in praise of the ordinary
after feeling like a sick oaf and wearing my hair in a schmoopy bun all week, I whipped out my curling iron and lancome mascara and was baptized
bare floors! the cinema!
After writing about my paternal grandparents last week, I thought I’d include a favorite photo of my maternal ones, Joel and Marilyn. Weren’t they gorgeous? I never met my grandpa but am told he loved to cackle with his whole mouth and had a mischievous sense of humor, so I know we’d have gotten on well.
*
p.s. happy virgo szn to all my earth bbs! I dare you to go reorganize your closet
xoo
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Always love your words 🤍 - you look so much like Marilyn! GORG😍
she’s a good writing giiiiiirrrrlllllll