vi. Scenes
Elizabeth Moore
Today is ever so soft around the edges, ripe with possibility, quiet with gifts, rich with wealth I will never touch.
I am glad to know what makes me alive. Today, the summer breeze waltzes with lace curtains. Yesterday, the metal slats of the fire escape pressed cool against my skin. A few weeks ago, the echo of footsteps raced all the way to the ceiling inside the Museum of Modern Art.
Today is Sunday, and I walk to my favorite café on Columbus Ave for an afternoon coffee, looping my mask over my ears before going inside. I order my usual—black coffee in the tiniest cup—fingering my punch card while I wait, folded and torn around the edges, a victim of idle hands and a back pocket. Three more punches until I’ve earned a free drink.
I sit on a bench outside, sipping splashes off the top and responding to text messages. A woman asks the person beside her for the wifi password, her voice a few notches too loud. The neighboring person shyly responds that she does not know.
The password is posted indoors. I took a picture of it last week. It’s still saved to my camera roll. I consider getting up to tell this to the loud woman, but don’t want to draw more attention to her or to myself. Instead, I remain seated, sipping my coffee and texting and reassuring myself that if this woman really needed the wifi password she could go inside and ask.
I get up to leave and the familiar teeth of guilt gnaw on my conscience. Even though I did nothing wrong, I’m disappointed in myself for missing an opportunity to help. Because this is the type of gravitational pull I want to fight against—this instinct to remain in my comfort zone, to self-protect when there is no danger, only discomfort. I want to be a person who goes out of her way to meet needs, not someone who orbits her own world undisturbed. And yet, speaking to strangers in public continues to be difficult.
On 70th Street, I pause to look up at one of my favorite apartments, a small second-story flat above a sushi restaurant. There is nothing grand about this apartment except for one large square window where, just inside, a grand piano faces the street. I peer into the window for a moment longer, noticing the plants and the sheet music that litter the floor.
I round the corner of 70th and Broadway as it rumbles with the brash staccato of yells, horns, halal carts, strollers. A man digs through the trash can and slams his fist on the metal top. A fast-walking mom passes him with her toddler. A mustached man exits the bank. A cluster of teenagers drift along the sidewalk and collide with a young couple shouldering reusable grocery bags. All of our paths converge within three feet of each other, disagreeable and dissonant.
Artistic Offering
My church regularly commissions art as part of their worship service. The care, support, and even professional opportunities this provides our artistic community is beautiful. This summer, our series on Colossians is accompanied by a gallery featuring the work of Paolo Verzani, Jeff Woldan, and Ramuel Galarza who set out to visually capture the longing, neediness, and seeds of hope that reside in our city. This online gallery is giving me life, and I hope it’s a sweet scroll for you over coffee or lunch. If you’re able to visit the gallery in-person at 417 W 57th Street, there are beautiful captions to accompany the exhibit as well. The graphic above is the visual headliner for the series and was designed by the brilliant Dave Rompee.
If you have any artistic offerings to share—please send my way!
This Week in New York…
The dreamiest apartment on the Upper West Side became my new home, complete with a winding staircase and private terrace. Pinch me.
Church of the City New York gathered in person for the first time in sixteen months!
The temperature reached 93 degrees and scrappy window units everywhere kept us alive.
The words smoky, funky, and barnyard were used at a natural wine tasting.
A rooftop was unofficially housewarmed by a spontaneous visit from neighbors and hand-rolled cigarettes ;)
A homeless man spoke aggressive and honest poetry to people walking by.
Two neighbors met for coffee and became friends.
A jazz jam session packed out the Craftsman bar in Harlem.
Someone broke the entire apartment building’s dryer by cramming the wrong coins into the slot. (Was it me? I never tell. But I did tip the Wash & Fold around the corner VERY well when they took my wet laundry after closing time.)
