vol. 21: autumn in new york
NYC morning after the death of Louise Glück. While the earth is in shambles. We pray for the Israeli victims of Hamas, the kidnapped to be safely returned home, the Palestinians to be spared horrific retaliatory fates.
Being here is helpful. Surrounded by Jewish people who resemble myself in a way. Descendants of our diasporic tradition who aren’t overtly religious yet maintain strong, critical ties to their ethnic, cultural, and intellectual heritage.
Yesterday I walked through Riverside Park with a composer of thoughtful, meditative music. We discussed everything from art to literature to music to career to heritage to concern over the events unfolding in the Middle East. His warmth, intellect, and thoughtfulness served as a balm to my soul.
Next, another musical (and fellow mixed heritage Jewish-Torontonian) friend and I shared joys, fears, excitements amidst Rembrandts, Vermeers, Fragonards, Indian tapestries at the Frick. (A place Frank O’Hara has told me to visit for years.)
I wandered through Central Park people-watching photoshoots of families and people in everything from haute couture to garishly adorned Crocks. Sitting outside the Metropolitan Opera, I met another inspiring friend, who eased my fears around our plan to watch Dead Man Walking during a time of war.
“That’s why I wanted to see it today,” she shared with me. “The notion of state-sanctioned violence and its societal repercussions felt right to sit with during this terrible time.”
Indeed, the opera comforted, provoked, horrified. People around me audibly cried throughout.
I arrived home exhausted from my day but nourished. Reflecting, every person I’d spent time with today had been of Jewish descent. We’d all felt deeply affected by what was going on thousands of miles away. Yet connecting helped me feel less overwhelmed.
Today is another day in the city my great-grandparents arrived at from Poland many years ago.