Tonight, I am writing from the other side of the round kitchen table.
New York City public schools will close until April 20th. I was surprised how this news hit my heart. Taking the girls to school felt like…
Tonight, I am writing from the other side of the round kitchen table.
New York City public schools will close until April 20th. I was surprised how this news hit my heart. Taking the girls to school felt like the last lifeline to normalcy left in this whole endeavor. I cried. I cried for the loss of our normalcy. I cried for the loss of learning/stability/safety for so many kids throughout the city, the country, the world. I cried for the kids who will need to trek to their school buildings to pick up ‘grab ‘n go’ meals so that they can eat each day. I cried hard because one my girls was so excited to watch her classroom’s baby chicks hatch in 17 days, and hasn’t yet realized that she will miss it.
I love our school. It’s not perfect, but I always feel welcome there. I felt the school rooting me into the soil underneath the concrete of Brooklyn when I wasn’t sure I even wanted to live in this city anymore. Thank you.
I like the color of the school, the feel of it. I want to work there one day. The school doors open like arms to us when we walk in the building. The halls are alive with artwork and questioning and gender wonder and social justice and color. I told you about the chickens. Our parent-teacher conferences were two weeks ago and it was heartening to hear how much progress the kids had made. The girls are thriving and so am I.
Now, I am thinking of how to make our days together. How to impart a gentle schedule on life in a one-bedroom apartment? What magic can we create as a family during this extraordinary time? How to balance productivity and process? How many times can I cry per day? What is there to look forward to?
I have many questions. I have so many questions.
Be gentle. Piece things out. This is it. There is nowhere else to be but right here.
Pema says:
“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”