Time Out

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In November of last year, my love affair with New York City hit a bump. In my dozen or so previous visits, I had fully embraced the energy and excitement Manhattan had to offer, always leaving with similar feelings as I used to have as a graduate student in Georgia, when my California boyfriend and I had to part after precious time on the same coast. I would leave already thinking ahead to when I could return and explore more of its streets to the beat of a constant soundtrack of horns, engines and subways beneath my feet.

Last November, the city was its usual lively self with election energy tingling all over and holiday preparations underway. Snowflake lights were being hung, Christmas trees planted and window displays in transition as vendors sold hot dogs like any other day in the Big Apple. But me? I was on an entirely different wavelength, one humming to a tune of introspection and stillness. For the first time in my life I felt disconnected from one of my favorite cities in the world. It almost felt foreign, as if everyone moving briskly past me spoke a strange language.

I tried to get my Manhattan mojo bubbling, but no matter how many times I examined a map or pondered neighborhoods I’d never visited, I couldn’t shake the stillness inside me. I wanted to be quiet, drink coffee all afternoon and watch the world go by. I managed to have one day of big walks and gallery visits, but by the next day—my last full day—I had to force myself to leave the hotel. Even then, I didn’t make it very far before I finally surrendered and gave into my state of being. It happened suddenly, this submersion into the quiet sea inside me and was far easier than I’d imagined. I was at the New York Public Library, sitting in the cavernous main reading room at a long table with brass lamps, writing in my journal. After filling many pages, I wrote:

“All I want to do right now is go back to my hotel room and read. What if I gave myself permission to do that?”

Then, just like that, off I went. No hesitation, no agonizing over whether or not I should explore another museum; just calmly gathering my things and returning to a quiet room 22 floors above 57th Avenue to read all afternoon. Read! In New York City!

But that was the way it had to be, and I had one of the most delicious afternoons I had had in a long while in one of the most lively cities there is. Sometimes the time to be still arrives in a place where it makes no sense, where every part of your brain screams, “Rebel! Resist! Go out and move!” But no matter, the time to rest has arrived, and it has no interest in your geographical location.