The Girl At The Window

Let me tell you about the girl standing at the window…

She had hoped that embracing the warmth of the summer sun and the sweet smells of gardenias would bring her back from the darkness of the recent troubling past. She had hoped that her reunion with her treasured, life-defining possessions would herald a resurrection of a once glory, of happier times. She had hoped that the promise of an untried job and unfamiliar city streets would rejuvenate her crippled spirit. She hoped for a startling newness as she settled solo in Sacramento.

But she found herself focused on the warmth of another sun. She pined for the twilight walks and the fireflies surrounding her in a blanket of twinkling movement. She desired to once again peer into and imagine herself living in one of the brownstones that lined in rows of attention as she passed from one street to the next. She missed the neatly manicured parks, filled with majestic statues, fountains, and hidden paths. She longed to hear the rhythmic pulse of the traffic and the bustling footsteps of the people; the heralding carillon of a subway train coming to a stop, whooshing its doors open to spill its departing, intent passengers and take her to exhilarating destinations. She yearned to gaze upon the grandness of a skyline filled with history, defining moments, and stories that told of dreams and accomplishments. And she craved the softness and cool downpour of a summer rain.

She missed New York.

But the intent of this blog is not to compare cities--that would be unfair. Rather, it is to speak about that girl and her love affair with New York. She has always been a city girl. She grew up and defined her early self in the beauty and innocent wonder of San Francisco. Cities do just that—they shape you. You cannot escape such power and impact. But, for her, New York came to be the city that allowed her to grow and awaken to her truth.

Each time she returned in her life (and she tried to come back at least once a year) and for the two summers she lived in that little apartment on Amsterdam and 80^th, she was “home”.  It was a connection that compelled her to challenge her perceptions, her intelligence, her spirit.  There was always an unmistakable anticipation. And the city never disappointed. Even with a confidence of familiarity and the comfort of belonging, a surprising adventure awaited.  She was at her boldest, her happiest.  How could she not be madly in love with such a city?

She once wrote to a friend, “In New York…I have felt comfortable and tested at the same time; privileged to be amidst such history and beauty; excited to expect the unexpected. Like any great love, I will hold such gifts in my heart always.”

And, now, how could she not miss it?

She acknowledges that life has taken her in many other directions and other places. In the past year, she has dealt with the unthinkable, felt heartbreak, frustration, and yes hopelessness. In the midst of such chaos, her memories of New York have sustained her. There is gratitude that she had the opportunity to visit and live there. There is joy in the remembrance of the moments with friends and family, of special places, and simple walks in Central Park with her dog. There are lessons to be learned from the times and people that challenged (yes, she accepts that nothing is perfect). New York is a moveable feast, a bounty of experiences which, when life becomes unbearable, picks you up and speaks softly to your soul’s deepest dreams.

Now, let me tell you about another girl at her window…

While visiting my daughter when she was studying art in Spain, she took me to the Museo Reina Sofia to see Salvador Dali’s painting: GIRL AT THE WINDOW.  “I think you will love it, Mom, it reminds me of you.” She was right. That painting captures the learner, the dreamer, the adventurer in me. It is a metaphor for promise. As the girl stares from her window, into the distance, you do not see her face. This frees me to visualize myself looking out, contemplating all the wonder and love that life offers. It is a defining work of art and my quintessential “portraiture”.

And that girl in the Dali painting is not unlike the girl who looked out of her window, beyond the fire escape, onto the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 80th on the Upper West Side. She was the real-life portrait, living her very own New York story…and capturing the possibilities.

As you have probably determined, I am/was that girl. And, in this moment in my lifetime, I look out onto the suburban lawn in Sacramento.

It is challenging to be solo in Sacramento. Perhaps there is still so much healing left to do after the pain of recent struggles. Perhaps it is because I cannot forget New York. But I cannot surrender in desolate resolution. On the contrary, there must be hopeful continuance. What choice do I have? Sacramento is my present window-scape; these are my warm summer nights. There are no fireflies or grand skyscrapers or long walks through neighborhoods defined by the integrity of the architecture and the people within.  But for now, yes, there is the sweet fragrance of gardenias and a beckoning cityscape of an unknown beyond.

      A glimpse into one of the New York summers. Do note that if you are reading this blog on email, please click on the Solo in Sacramento link to take you to the actual website to view the video within the body of the narrative.