“By the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes–a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes.” ― E.M. Forster, A Room with a View
My devoted and quirky giant tuxedo cat, Oscar. The grace of a great blue heron taking flight. The enchanting arrival of a snowy owl on a winter day. The majesty of a red-tailed hawk swooping low overhead. The breath caught when coming upon a deer in the woods. The respectful nods exchanged when passing a coyote on a dark city street. That humans and animals, and animals and animals, form emotional bonds with one another.
Finding people waiting for you on the platform when you disembark a train. The unexpected arrival of a lengthy hand-written letter. Acquaintances with heads full of knowledge generously shared and who remain curious into old age. Thank You and Please and Excuse Me and I’m Sorry. The old world etiquette of never showing up to someone’s home without a gift of wine or chocolate or flowers. The ease with which you make friends when you travel. The endurance of a friendship you can set aside for a decade and pick up where you left off as if only days had passed.
The fearlessness and camaraderie city living cultivates. The gritty noirish hue Chicago’s sulfur streetlights cast on the night. The 24-7 street life and fossilized Jazz Age buildings of Uptown. The spic-and span glamor of the Gold Coast. State Street decked out and bustling at Christmastime. Miller’s Pub. The Green Mill. Merz Apothecary. Chinatown shops full of mystery candies and Hello Kitty pencil sets. The elevator operator in the Fine Arts Building. Escaping from the world at the Art Institute and humming the Ferris Bueller song when you look at the Seurat. The view of downtown Chicago from Lake Shore Drive that always induces child-like awe. The view of Lake Michigan from Montrose Point that clears your mind of worldly preoccupations.
The first warm day after a long winter when everyone leaves their homes like released hostages, mesmerized by the thawing rays of sun on their skin and the vivid colors of the natural world. The first firefly of the season. The late summer dirge sung by a chorus of cicadas. Autumn harvest festivals that echo ancient traditions beneath their façades of epicurean hoedown amusements. Sweater weather. Charlie Brown weather. October. Children dressed like the goblins they are. Pilgrim weather. The warmth of Thanksgiving dinner. The dance the Peanuts kids do and you do too when you hear that song. Christmas carolers. Real Christmas trees. The quiet that descends upon the city after a heavy snowfall. The way snow looks like diamonds in the moonlight.
The cinematic suspense of watching a storm approach from a Midwestern farmhouse or from a North Atlantic cape. Early morning spectral fog. Early evening sunlight filtered through leaves- komorebi. The seductive smell of decaying leaves and mud and moss. Fall foliage and limestone bluffs along the Mississippi River. The way barren winter trees look like haunted calligraphy. Ravens. That there is a lake on the bottom of the ocean floor. That there are places on Earth completely uninhabited by humans. That there are humans living in space.
Being able to fly in your dreams. Returning to places in dreams you’ve only ever been to in other dreams. The way when you swim in the ocean you feel the waves again when you lie down to sleep. Sleeping with the windows open to a cool breeze. Sleeping until you wake up naturally. Mid-afternoon baths on weekdays. Slipping into crisp white cotton sheets still warm from the dryer. Mornings when you awake feeling gloriously relaxed and bathed in love. A full body, cat-like stretch. A scalp massage. The shiver down your spine when someone whispers in your ear. Exhilarating sex.
The way the bodies of men in cowboy boots move. Riding a motorcycle down county roads and going to biker bars. The petty criminal atmosphere and funnel cake aroma of carnivals. Skinny-dipping. Hitchhiking on a New Jersey back road in the middle of the night and surviving it. The devil-may-care catharsis of crying on a public bus. Campari sodas on long summer nights. A day of sweaty manual labor followed by beers and classic rock. Dive bars. Guys who smoke cigarettes outside of dive bars. Men who fly you to strange cities.
Moscow. Paris. New York. Hanging out in the lobbies and bars of posh hotels you’re not staying in. La Traviata at the Metropolitan Opera. The fact that nothing bad can happen at Tiffany’s. Grand Central Station. Waterfront property. Meeting Mary Oliver and her dog on a beach in Provincetown. Being carried along a bank of the Seine by a beautiful man. Falling asleep under the Eiffel Tower. Montmartre. Patisseries and boulangeries and brasseries. Street musicians. Terrace cafes in public plazas. Georgian feasts and toasts. A troika ride across the Russian winter steppe. The mystical pulse under the Russian soil that I think just made up but absolutely believe in. Banyas. Orthodox icons. Catholic goth and ostentation. The blue mosques of Islam.
Yves Klein blue. Post-impressionism. Abstract art. Miro. Modernism. Art Deco. Ostalgie. Constructivism. Symbolism. Russian ballet. Bob Fosse choreography. The Costume Institute at the Met. Satin ribbons and miniature perfumes. 1920’s drop-waist dresses. The September issue of Vogue. A man in a well-tailored suit. Palazzo pants. Sunglasses. Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan and Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. My grandmother’s cat-eye glasses and red lipstick. Black turtleneck sweaters and never out of style trench coats. Calvin Klein minimalism.
Sunflowers in blue pitchers. Vases of pale peonies the color of Miss Havisham’s wedding gown. Fresh cut flowers on the breakfast table. Literally stopping to smell the roses. Formal public gardens full of people minding their own business. Lilac bushes in their ephemeral bloom. The honeysuckle trees that lined my grandmother’s yard. Cars with Christmas trees strapped to their roofs. That sensible modern people bring entire trees into their homes all pagan-like. Vetiver. Sandalwood. Patchouli. Eucalyptus branches hung in the shower. Lavender used in food and drink.
An expertly made martini. A Casino Royale vesper. A G&T with elderflower. Freshly chopped herbs and the aromatic stains they leave on your fingertips. Bowls of lemons. Calhoun County peaches from roadside stands. Homemade apple butter. Beach plum jelly. Hibiscus sorbet. Saffron bastani. Zanzibar chocolate ice cream. Jean-Yves Martin’s croissants and Picasso’s Coffee cappuccinos. McDonald’s French fries. 99 cent slices of pizza in Midtown Manhattan. Jewish food. Borshch. Homemade soup and crusty bread. Making crepes for Pancake Day. Blueberry pancakes at the old Lincoln Inn. My grandmother’s latticed blueberry pie. My mother’s peach cobbler. The bowl of spaghetti my mother always made for me when I was out of sorts. Family recipes.
Communal meal preparation. Homes where the kitchen is the central gathering place. Sun filled rooms with high ceilings. Built-in bookshelves. Blue and white china. Cloth napkins. Mismatched antique furniture. Down comforters. Deep claw-foot bathtubs. Black and white tile. Secret staircases. Shoe boxes containing small objects of sentimental value. Old photo albums. Apocryphal family stories. Finding the forgotten cemeteries in the woods where your ancestors settled.
Ghost stories. Russian novels. The spare, poignant observations of Capote, Modiano and Hrabal. Red leather notebooks. Colored pens. Wood-paneled library reading rooms. Ephemera found in old books: a pressed rose, a late 1930s Austrian train ticket, a pre-revolutionary Russian leaflet… Poems you return to in times of strife or exaltation: Oliver, Whitman, Mayakovsky, Tennyson… The book you can’t put down. The book your mind picks up. The movies you’ve seen a hundred times and mouth the lines to while you watch them. PBS. British murder mysteries and Merchant & Ivory films. Woody Allen films. Going to the movie theater alone.
Going on day trips with sassy great-aunts. Unsolicited glances of approval or mischief from old ladies. Smart, courageous women who make you stand up and applaud. Living long enough to know what you need and what is not worth it. The day you realize the world won’t end if you say or do something shocking. An innocuous observation that forever changes the way you think of something. Tipsy-headed, impassioned political debates. The adrenaline rush of a bustling political campaign office. Winning.
My mother’s record collection. My grandfather’s Dvorak album. Mozart’s violin concertos. Chopin’s “Raindrop Prelude.” Post-punk and New Wave and 80’s dance pop. Dancing to the radio when no one is home. Listening to opera or soul music while cooking. Listening to Kind of Blue in the wee hours and Time Out on dreary days and Vince Guaraldi when leaves begin to fall. Practiced notes wafting from the music school behind your building. The typewriterly tapping of rain on a roof. The clanging of sailboats in a harbor. The sound of a train in the distance. The faint snores of a sleeping cat.