v. Solace
Elizabeth Moore
In praise of Vermont, sentences, and silence.
A few weeks ago, Audrey, Charissa, Corinne, and I spent a weekend writing in Vermont. We tucked ourselves into a white wooden cottage on the side of a highway, and surrounded ourselves with a solace so personal we could reach out and touch it. For four days, we drizzled maple syrup over blueberry pancakes, sipped whiskey in bathrobes, and absorbed the potent smell of pine and fresh air, all while laughing so hard we could barely breathe.
The primary goal was rest, not results. Beyond finishing one poem, I had no agenda. I simply wanted to be open, to listen, and to be restored. At first, this counter-productivity seemed strange. I felt disassociated from the surrounding beauty and frustrated by my inability to be fully in the moment. But I settled into books and sleep and hikes, trusting that rest would work on its own time table.
Throughout the long weekend, I reveled in the simple pleasure of an essay collection and thought about how certain words in a certain light cut like a sharp, merciful blade. I wrapped myself in blankets and bathrobes, and listened for what the quietness had to say. I prayed and hung my anxieties out to dry, pinning them, one by one, on the clothesline of my consciousness until I could see them for what they really were, and move them further down the line. After clearing my head and surrendering to stillness, the patient silence of Vermont cracked me open and let some of its beauty inside. Light warmed the stale, dusty corners of my mind, and beckoned to the shy places within me that get stifled by city life.
This is all to say: I am for regular retreats. Whether writing, playing, exploring, or resting, there is something restorative about leaving the city, temporarily abandoning your routine, and unraveling in a spacious place.
Artistic Offering
For Mother’s Day
Bloody tear
in her tenderest place
Woundable and weak
for the sake of her little one
Wave after unbearable wave
of sharp surge and screaming swell
Knees bent, back arched,
core ripped raw and split open
Sack and cord,
belly and breast
Body laid down as an offering,
guiding her Own across the first
of many thresholds.
“Only a mother can walk
with the weight
of a second beating heart.”
—Ocean Vuong
Currently Reading
Rules of Civility by Amor Towles
A War of Loves by David Bennett
Currently in New York…
My first dose of the COVID vaccine was administered at a homeless shelter in Midtown Manhattan. Side effects were a sore arm, an hour-long nap, and discovering that the nurse and I have the same birthday.
The New York Botanical Gardens are in full bloom.
A dance party broke out in an Iraeli restaurant on Macdougal Street for Yom Ha'atzmaut. Tambourines, Israli flags, and the most delicious labneh and pita of my life were all present and accounted for.
All was well after several subways past 10pm.
Lily Grace Moore waved at every human being and dog on the Upper West Side.
The Museum of Modern Art on a rainy Sunday morning is the best kept secret I can’t believe I’m telling you.
Grand Central Station is still magical.
Apartment hunting is not for the faint of heart.
My roommates and I finally befriended Dave, the Scottish man who tends the whiskey bar next door.