It caught me completely off guard. On Wednesday I was walking down Washington Street, a main shopping avenue here in Hoboken, and I was suddenly overcome by what I can only describe as a deep sense of peace.
The night before I did some jaw exercises, which mysteriously alleviated the pain (usually they don't work), a state that lasted into the next morning, so at first I thought this newfound contentment was just a result of having a good day catch me by surprise. But there was an otherness to it that I'd never quite felt before--a feeling that it wasn't coming from within me, but rather something that was surrounding me, like a big bubble of love.
I was so invigorated that I decided to keep my appointment with my life coach, Nancy Colasurdo, and afterwards had the energy to do multiple errands around town, which ordinarily would feel like lifting boulders but instead felt effortless.
In a nutshell, I suppose I was just plain calm for the first time in months.
When I got home that evening, I didn't check email for some reason, which is unusual for me. It wasn't until noon the next day that I finally opened my inbox, and to my complete astonishment, there were dozens of emails alerting me to all of the responses to my new blog at Salon. (Even though I publish primarily at Blogger, I recently signed up for a blog at Open.Salon.com, which takes your feed and reproduces your blog post for post, creating a perfect duplicate.)
When I began reading the comments, I was overwhelmed by their compassion, intelligence and offers of prayers, which made me wonder: Was this the reason for that sense of peace the day before?
Wednesday morning, I did read one Salon comment from Vonnia in response to one of my posts in which she said, "I'm holding your hand, and I won't let go." It was so powerful, so sincere, so touching that I carried those words with me throughout the entire day. And I was so surprised at the intensity of my reaction to them, as they felt just so real--like someone was really there holding my hand, bearing silent witness to my suffering with a type of strength and fortitude I couldn't summon on my own.
Who was she, this anonymous woman who offered such a simple promise that has me in tears as I write this?
And who were of all these amazing souls, for that matter, who took the time to write such powerful, warm words straight from their center, who got down in the trenches with me to offer such solace, such understanding, such compassion.
I truly believe that the combination of everything was that fuzzy thing that wrapped around me that afternoon, a full day before I knew where it was coming from.
There are forces out there that we still don't understand, that we haven't fully harnessed, for if I could feel so strongly this outpouring of love, imagine what we could do as a people if we focused our prayers (in whatever form they take) in a collective way on specific issues. Perhaps we really could change the world just by channelling the love in our hearts. That might sound naive, but I know what I felt Wednesday afternoon.
While I've written a lot of words here, there are none that can express my gratitude for this generosity of spirit from perfect strangers. For a chick who's got a lot to say about everything, I'm speechless.
**********************************
Showing posts with label Hoboken. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hoboken. Show all posts
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Friday, January 02, 2009
Another Bum From The Neighborhood
This is my first post of the new year, 2009. As I'm still achy from this flu, I snuggled on the couch this morning and was lucky enough to stumble upon the film Rocky and watch it in its entirety.
As Sylvester Stallone's career took such a bizarre, unexpected and disappointing turn after those first few Rocky movies, the lustre of the original Rocky wore off for me in the wake of Stallone's real life decisions over the years, both professional and personal, which seemed to call into question the universal truth of despair and triumph he so perfectly captured in his first major box-office success.
Yet 32 years later, I'm seeing the film with fresh eyes again, and have been mulling over what made it such an astronomical hit back in 1977, when I was a teen. Aside from his perfectly written script and flawless direction, it's Stallone's true-blue characters that are at its core.
Rocky himself is a product of his low-brow, working-class neighborhood, where opportunities are few for the uneducated, and he starts out in the film as a "leg breaker" for a local loan shark. To walk with him through his transition from thug to champion can't help but pull at the heartstrings of anyone aching in the human condition, for whether you're rich or poor, smart or leadheaded, strong or weak, Rocky--both the film and the character--makes us believe that any of us, with just that one lucky break, with just a modicum of chance, could rise to the heights, provided we have a dream and are willing to work doggedly to make it happen.
What's also lovely about this tale is Rocky's relationship with Adrian, a woman unseen by most men because of her shyness and the fact that she buries herself deep under sweaters and behind her glasses. In developing this romance, Stallone didn't miss a beat, which is why women adored this film as much as men did, as many of us could see ourselves in Adrian. She perhaps wasn't a standard beauty at first, but love ultimately morphed her into the beauty she was all along (surely a skilled acting turn for Talia Shire).
As the story unfolds, we begin to see what Rocky sees. Her skin is peaches and cream; her hair is flaxen; her eyes are innocent and pure. And never once in the film is Rocky not sensitive to her plight. Back in 1977, and right up until this day in fact, it's a relief to see a love story where the female protagonist isn't a Hollywood beauty distorted to look ugly, like Charlize Theron in Monster. While Theron's transformation into brutishness was masterful, while her acting was impeccable, we all knew while watching the film that at the Red Carpet event touting its release, Theron would go back to being a stunner.
Would an actress who really looked like Aileen Wournos have been given the chance to make the film? Of course not, which is why it's so touching that Stallone even cast Shire. She's real-life pretty--at times looking haggard and older than her years, and at others, positively luminescent.
That's why it was such a disappointment that in real life, Stallone abandoned his longtime marriage and hooked up with a string of Hollywood starlets and models, seeming to discard the very life lesson he taught us, which is that undiscovered feminine beauty (and masculine beauty, for that matter) is all around us if we only have the eyes to see it.
Perhaps the most poignant scene in Rocky is the night before the big fight, where he lies in bed with Adrian, saying that no matter whether he wins or loses, he will always feel like "just another bum from the neighborhood."
To those of us who grew up in the likes of Rocky's environs (in his case, the row houses of Philadelphia, and in my own, the streets of Newark), a little of that always lingers, no matter how far or wide we stray, and when Rocky made these utterances, he hit a very old, very personal nerve.
This unending decade of physical trials (which actually started long before 1999) has often tapped into some vague dread of mine that I will never really triumph over my own worst fears about myself--that I'm one of the chosen few who simply gets barraged with unfortunate events because of some unspoken demon curse that hangs around my neck like an anchor in a stormy sea, forcing me to battle ceaselessly the elements and live a life that, at times, has made me wonder if it's even worth staying alive for.
But then today there was Rocky, running along the Philly waterfront in his tattered clothes, towards a future where his own unlucky streak could change on a dime, and in a sense, already had in his newfound romance with Adrian. He had the eyes to see the possibility in her, which opened his eyes to see the possibilities within himself.
What I also love about the film is the element of chance, which plays like a central character. In looking through the pictures of amateur boxers to fight, Apollo Creed could have easily missed Rocky's photograph and chosen another. But Creed stumbled upon the Italian Stallion, and so Rocky got his chance to prove to himself, and us, that winners are made, not born, provided we have the courage to say yes to life.
Roman philosopher Senaca said that "luck happens when opportunity meets preparation." But even opportunity itself can often be random, and some of us get more of it than others.
Rocky could have just as easily continued with his leg-breaking career, save for the break of a different kind--a chance to beat the heavyweight champ of the world, which, let's face it, has as much of a chance happening to some poor soul as getting struck by lightening, probably less. That's why they call it luck; it doesn't happen often. And in this case, that's why they call it fiction.
I've been weepy today, probably because I've run out of painkillers and because I have the flu on top of everything else. But the tears started after Rocky did his majestic stair-climb, when it was clear that his luck (and the luck of Sylvester Stallone for that matter) had turned for the better.
I suppose I could take my own long run along the Hoboken waterfront, then charge up the stairs of City Hall while listening to the Rocky theme on my MP3 player, but I'm a bit out of shape. My flamenco dance lessons start next week for an intensive month of study, which will be a challenge for a body that's been so sedentary for the past year.
Back in the days when I had a break in the pain, I remember walking through the Broadway district one afternoon after a lesson to go buy a new flamenco skirt. I remember thinking, "Wow, I'm a dancer in New York. I'm doing it. I never even knew that I wanted to do this, but I'm right here, right now, and it feels amazing."
That was my own moment of Rocky-like victory, and one I intend to have again.
Pan shot to me doing some flamenco victory spins in Times Square.
************************************
As Sylvester Stallone's career took such a bizarre, unexpected and disappointing turn after those first few Rocky movies, the lustre of the original Rocky wore off for me in the wake of Stallone's real life decisions over the years, both professional and personal, which seemed to call into question the universal truth of despair and triumph he so perfectly captured in his first major box-office success.
Yet 32 years later, I'm seeing the film with fresh eyes again, and have been mulling over what made it such an astronomical hit back in 1977, when I was a teen. Aside from his perfectly written script and flawless direction, it's Stallone's true-blue characters that are at its core.
Rocky himself is a product of his low-brow, working-class neighborhood, where opportunities are few for the uneducated, and he starts out in the film as a "leg breaker" for a local loan shark. To walk with him through his transition from thug to champion can't help but pull at the heartstrings of anyone aching in the human condition, for whether you're rich or poor, smart or leadheaded, strong or weak, Rocky--both the film and the character--makes us believe that any of us, with just that one lucky break, with just a modicum of chance, could rise to the heights, provided we have a dream and are willing to work doggedly to make it happen.
What's also lovely about this tale is Rocky's relationship with Adrian, a woman unseen by most men because of her shyness and the fact that she buries herself deep under sweaters and behind her glasses. In developing this romance, Stallone didn't miss a beat, which is why women adored this film as much as men did, as many of us could see ourselves in Adrian. She perhaps wasn't a standard beauty at first, but love ultimately morphed her into the beauty she was all along (surely a skilled acting turn for Talia Shire).
As the story unfolds, we begin to see what Rocky sees. Her skin is peaches and cream; her hair is flaxen; her eyes are innocent and pure. And never once in the film is Rocky not sensitive to her plight. Back in 1977, and right up until this day in fact, it's a relief to see a love story where the female protagonist isn't a Hollywood beauty distorted to look ugly, like Charlize Theron in Monster. While Theron's transformation into brutishness was masterful, while her acting was impeccable, we all knew while watching the film that at the Red Carpet event touting its release, Theron would go back to being a stunner.
Would an actress who really looked like Aileen Wournos have been given the chance to make the film? Of course not, which is why it's so touching that Stallone even cast Shire. She's real-life pretty--at times looking haggard and older than her years, and at others, positively luminescent.
That's why it was such a disappointment that in real life, Stallone abandoned his longtime marriage and hooked up with a string of Hollywood starlets and models, seeming to discard the very life lesson he taught us, which is that undiscovered feminine beauty (and masculine beauty, for that matter) is all around us if we only have the eyes to see it.
Perhaps the most poignant scene in Rocky is the night before the big fight, where he lies in bed with Adrian, saying that no matter whether he wins or loses, he will always feel like "just another bum from the neighborhood."
To those of us who grew up in the likes of Rocky's environs (in his case, the row houses of Philadelphia, and in my own, the streets of Newark), a little of that always lingers, no matter how far or wide we stray, and when Rocky made these utterances, he hit a very old, very personal nerve.
This unending decade of physical trials (which actually started long before 1999) has often tapped into some vague dread of mine that I will never really triumph over my own worst fears about myself--that I'm one of the chosen few who simply gets barraged with unfortunate events because of some unspoken demon curse that hangs around my neck like an anchor in a stormy sea, forcing me to battle ceaselessly the elements and live a life that, at times, has made me wonder if it's even worth staying alive for.
But then today there was Rocky, running along the Philly waterfront in his tattered clothes, towards a future where his own unlucky streak could change on a dime, and in a sense, already had in his newfound romance with Adrian. He had the eyes to see the possibility in her, which opened his eyes to see the possibilities within himself.
What I also love about the film is the element of chance, which plays like a central character. In looking through the pictures of amateur boxers to fight, Apollo Creed could have easily missed Rocky's photograph and chosen another. But Creed stumbled upon the Italian Stallion, and so Rocky got his chance to prove to himself, and us, that winners are made, not born, provided we have the courage to say yes to life.
Roman philosopher Senaca said that "luck happens when opportunity meets preparation." But even opportunity itself can often be random, and some of us get more of it than others.
Rocky could have just as easily continued with his leg-breaking career, save for the break of a different kind--a chance to beat the heavyweight champ of the world, which, let's face it, has as much of a chance happening to some poor soul as getting struck by lightening, probably less. That's why they call it luck; it doesn't happen often. And in this case, that's why they call it fiction.
I've been weepy today, probably because I've run out of painkillers and because I have the flu on top of everything else. But the tears started after Rocky did his majestic stair-climb, when it was clear that his luck (and the luck of Sylvester Stallone for that matter) had turned for the better.
I suppose I could take my own long run along the Hoboken waterfront, then charge up the stairs of City Hall while listening to the Rocky theme on my MP3 player, but I'm a bit out of shape. My flamenco dance lessons start next week for an intensive month of study, which will be a challenge for a body that's been so sedentary for the past year.
Back in the days when I had a break in the pain, I remember walking through the Broadway district one afternoon after a lesson to go buy a new flamenco skirt. I remember thinking, "Wow, I'm a dancer in New York. I'm doing it. I never even knew that I wanted to do this, but I'm right here, right now, and it feels amazing."
That was my own moment of Rocky-like victory, and one I intend to have again.
Pan shot to me doing some flamenco victory spins in Times Square.
************************************
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Pinwheels, Baby!
I just opened my living room window to see what the weather was like. Days like this you just can't tell. I woke up to a chilly apartment and had to put the heat on, but it's 2 p.m. now and have to go out. Will I need a jacket?
Turns out my curiosity led to a slightly different discovery. As I opened the window, down below was a sanitation guy who does street sweeping, not with the big vehicle but with a broom and a trash can on wheels.
What was striking about him was that he'd taped a large pinwheel on the front of his trash can, which had an effortless and speedy spin. And in the couple of minutes I watched him, he stopped and had a short conversation with a friend, then waved hello to a passing car.
So often, we can look right past guys like him, and even feel sorry for them, assuming their job is one of drudgery and boredom.
But man, was I wrong. When was the last time I taped a pinwheel to something?
Turns out my curiosity led to a slightly different discovery. As I opened the window, down below was a sanitation guy who does street sweeping, not with the big vehicle but with a broom and a trash can on wheels.
What was striking about him was that he'd taped a large pinwheel on the front of his trash can, which had an effortless and speedy spin. And in the couple of minutes I watched him, he stopped and had a short conversation with a friend, then waved hello to a passing car.
So often, we can look right past guys like him, and even feel sorry for them, assuming their job is one of drudgery and boredom.
But man, was I wrong. When was the last time I taped a pinwheel to something?
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