Sometimes, the stress and chaos of everyday life results in a chasm of creativity. And even if these chasms are short-lived, they can have a powerful effect on happiness. This prose poem explores the feeling of losing access to inner peace and an important sense of knowing yourself, but remembering how it felt when your identity was wholeand creativity abundant.
The image below is a photograph of the Lisbon mural ”The Language of Flowers” byJacqueline de Montaigne, a work of street art I always found beautiful in its silent , self-reflective melancholy.
—–
Where did she go?
I need to feel more. Feel deeply. The kind of feeling that brings tears to your face so quickly you’re not sure if they’re happy or sad, or something even more elemental.
All the focus and the attention directed outward leaves the inside bare. Staring at Zoom screens, Google Maps, New York Times alerts, FaceTime calls; collecting and storing passwords the way people used to guard their jewels. It’s like the edges of me have blurred into the speeding subways, the rush of emails, the blazing billboards, pieces falling into those sad construction zones that sit idle for years. Where does the city start and I begin?
I wasn’t built this way, to blur around the edges. I was built to turn inwards, toward the core myself, turning ideas over in my mind like shells brushing against the sea floor – until they’re smooth, polished, ready to land on shore, having journeyed long out of sight before their arrival.
I’m furious in my dreams lately, cramming creativity into sleep where it doesn’t show up while I’m awake. Turning pages of imaginary books with the backs of my eyes and traveling to jagged, Picasso-like places until I wake up and get ready, trying to match the outline of myself with who I really am.
I get lonely quickly but still need to be alone. Crave it. That sense of losing and finding myself again in the words of a good book, a meal carefully prepared over hours, a journal filled with scribbled handwriting I’ll one day make sense of. It’s a vital energy source – looking inward, imagining.
I was built to wear my ideas proudly like a colorful patchwork coat. I’ve always done that; I used to that. And yet I show up every day in gray.
It was one of the honors of my life to write a poem for my brother Dan and his wife Giselle’s wedding ceremony back in June. When they first asked me to read at their wedding I was nervous about coming up with something meaningful enough. After about an hour reflecting I knew – for such an adventurous, fun-loving couple, the theme had to be sunlight and the simple, joyful times they share together. Read my poem below.
The Sun Always Finds Us
Hand-in-hand on the shores of the Atlantic Or hiking the Hudson riverside Standing before the Santa Monica mountains Our windows down on a Catskills drive
Wherever we are in the world The light seems to find us On rugged Irish shores And quaint Paris streets Through the trees of Central Park Landing on our faces and feet.
Wherever you are in the world The light seems to find you, my dear But the rays are strongest right here, right now When I stand on this river beside you And love you more than ever, somehow.
Know that I’ll never stop looking over with pride In those soft, sunny mornings when all is calm And you’re by my side.
Push to the surface I’m trying, but the waves Pin me to the sand Hold me down while Thoughts tumble through my mind Eyes straining through saltwater tears
Protect your skin From sharp-edged shells, Crab claws and broken glass Pain diffuses into the ocean in this Underwater chaos; it’s hard to feel my body Where does the water stop and I begin?
Come up for air Gasping, choking but the ocean seems so still How is everyone so calm? Kids playing, moms laughing, sun shining But I look out toward the horizon and see The waves lining up in the distance Waiting to take their turn.
The snap of a bone set in motion the next 40 years.
On that Saturday morning in April, the sun coated the road sleepily as my mom and two friends biked down Jericho Turnpike in Long Island. Usually rush-hour cars honked and skidded angrily along this highway, but on weekends it stretched calmly ahead, flat and empty.
With cycling shoes clipped firmly into the pedals of her new red Italian racing bike — the most expensive item she’d ever owned — my mom rode behind her two friends. The wind beat against her back, curls escaping her ponytail and whipping madly across her face. As the trio hit a stretch without any stores, a black cloud loomed suddenly and inexplicably behind them.
Screeech! My mom’s bike skidded left with the car’s impact, sliding below the wheels and breaking into jagged pieces as it tore into the tar below. Her body went right, sailing through the air with her feet still clipped onto the bike, joints twisting and cracking as she fell. She remembers looking down at herself from above and seeing her leg bent in a C-shape and white bone jutting out surreally from her left ankle. She was conscious but felt no pain.
In a way, the day of the accident was the first day of the rest of her life.
***
“We’re not sure we can save your leg,” the doctor said.
My mom, only 17 at the time, was alone in the hospital when she heard that news, realizing for the first time the severity of her injury.
The pain that was mysteriously absent at the time of the accident roared through her body now. As she dozed in and out of morphine-fueled sleep, her body kept bracing for impact, reliving the trauma repeatedly. Medication muted the pain for 30 minutes and then she’d wait three more hours for the next shot. She didn’t know how much more of it she could take.
After she’d spent two weeks in the hospital her orthopedist, Dr. Helou, knew her treatment was at a crossroads. They’d staved off infections but with her ankle crushed, what could they do now? Amputation was a logical option, but here was an athletic teenage girl with an entire life ahead of her. There had to be another way.
Dr. Helou turned to my grandparents. He told them this injury was more than he could handle and he’d been praying. One night after church, he’d returned to his office to see a medical journal spread open to a full-page article by a man named Dr. Howard Rosen — an orthopedic surgeon at the Hospital for Joint Diseases who was performing internal fixation — a new, European method of repairing complicated fractures with plates and screws. The method was rare in the United States at the time, but there was hope.
“I’m going to give you her X-rays,” Dr. Helou said to my grandfather. “You go to the hospital first thing Monday morning and beg to see Dr. Rosen. It’s what I would do if it were my own daughter.”
When my grandpa arrived, the waiting room was already packed. A sympathetic receptionist brought him around back to Dr. Rosen’s office so he’d be the first in line when the doctor got back from surgery.
When Dr. Rosen finally walked in six hours later, he was warm and friendly, with a perfectly manicured handlebar moustache and pristine spectacles that did not reveal that he’d come right from an intense operating room. Hours earlier he’d repaired the ankle of a Long Island woman who’d been in a horrific car accident. He thought my mom’s injury looked similar.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “I think I can help her walk again.”
With those words, my mom’s long road to healing began.
***
A few years before my mom’s accident, writer and essayist Susan Sontag famously wrote, “Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick.”
My mom has traveled between these kingdoms more than once in her 59 years, undergoing the biking accident, breast cancer and a life-threatening tumor on her adrenal gland.
When she returned from the hospital after giving birth to my youngest sister, she opened the New York Times issues she’d missed during a long and arduous last month of pregnancy.
She’d been thinking lately about Dr. Rosen, her very first guide back to the kingdom of the well. Not only did he rebuild her ankle, but she hardly had any pain and could do pretty much any activity other than running. He’d said to her after surgery, “If I buy you 10 years’ time and in 10 years they have better ankle replacement available, I would consider that a success.”
In the years since the accident, she’d gotten married, moved to a new state, bought a house and become a mother. She was going to give him a call and say, “Dr. Rosen, you told me you’d give me 10 years, but I got 20! And look, I have four beautiful children now.” Maybe she’d even send a photograph of the family.
But just as Dr. Helou had fortuitously opened the medical journal so many years earlier to see Dr. Rosen’s article, so did my mom open the New York Times to see Dr. Rosen’s obituary spreading across a full page.
Her heart sank. She wanted to thank him but he was already gone — taken by cancer, an illness that no number of plates and screws could cure.
***
In my childhood backyard, there are two tall pine trees that tower over my bedroom window. During thunderstorms, these trees sway back and forth, branches fluttering about angrily. I used to peer out of my window on stormy nights with worry.
“What if they fall on me?” I asked. “What if they crash through my bedroom?”
My mom would comfort me, saying “Don’t worry, the trees won’t fall. They are strong. And because their trunks can sway, they can take on the wind.”
Some of the world’s tallest skyscrapers have a similar engineering technique. In fact, they can sway inches to the right or left on the windiest days. For me, my mom is that tree, that skyscraper. Perhaps the most important lesson of the many I’ve learned from her is to embrace the hurt, realizing that life ebbs and flows between dark times and bright ones.
My mom’s incredible strength and faith has held steady through illness, loss, financial strain and the stress of the global pandemic. She’s flexible and proactive, staying focused on her core values and the people around her. Though she never got to thank Dr. Rosen in person, I know gratitude guides her actions every day. She’s taught me how to navigate career shifts and lapses in confidence by recognizing that hard times are inevitable. Getting through these hard times with grace while always asking what you can do for others makes good times that much sweeter.
My mom had never missed a day of school before the accident. But in an instant, she lost her school routine, senior year, nights out with friends. She faced a hazy future. She never asked, “why me?” because she was grateful to live, grateful that it was a bike that had gone under the car and not her.
As a teenager, she went through what she calls an “existential crisis,” staying up late at night reading books to figure out her purpose. After the accident her path became clear: she would become a physical therapist and help others recover from difficult injuries. And it was at SUNY Downstate Medical Center that she met a kind and silly fourth year medical student who’d become her husband — my father.
On that empty stretch of Jericho Turnpike, a dreadful accident changed her life trajectory. But just as bone transplanted from her hip over time grew into a new ankle, she took her one life and, with my dad, built four new ones. Forty years later she keeps pedaling ahead with the strength and speed of a 17-year-old, blocking the wind for those of us who came behind.
Where were you when you heard the results of the election?
I’m sitting outside at Irving Farm, a coffee shop on Third Avenue in the Upper East Side. Hanging out at coffee shops is one of my favorite pastimes but this is my first time back since the pandemic started in March. I watch people go in and out of the store, grabbing their cold brews and americanos, while well-groomed dogs slop up the crumbs of croissants on the sidewalk.
Scattered honks and shouts punctuate the usual noise the city. I wonder what they’re celebrating. Somewhere on a high rise overlooking the avenue, I hear a single voice yell out, “Joe Biden wins!”
People start cheering and I cry as joy and relief wash over me. I feel like I can finally breathe; I feel like I can’t catch my breath. I look up and see a young woman directly across from me sobbing, her head in her hands. After a few minutes I put on my mask and stand up, catching her eye. She smiles, puts on her mask, and says to me, “This might be weird, but can I give you a hug?” A guy nearby snaps a photo of us. It feels like history.
Cab after cab drives by, a cacophony of honks. Construction workers slam the sides of their trucks, city bus drivers holler uncontrollably, and a blonde woman in a Bentley pumps her fist. I make my way to my favorite spot in the city, The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, where people of all ages and races are gathered with signs and flags. A man around my age with a weeks-old newborn holds him to the sky, like Simba, as the afternoon light combs through the baby’s wispy hair.
“This is for our kids! This is for our kids!” someone shouts. As the initial shock wears off, people are remembering Kamala. What it means for our kids’ futures to have the first Black, South Asian, female vice president in office. A 20-something near me dances in the middle of the street with a Biden-Harris sign. For once, the oncoming traffic isn’t angered by the disruption.
I meet up with my brother for mimosas and brunch as the sun shines strongly overhead, wanting badly to be a part of all this. I’ve never seen so many New Yorkers smile. As we sit outside I overhear a little boy ask his mom, “Will Joe Biden’s family be really happy?” “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I think they will.”
Night falls on New York and the shouts become more sparse. We’re overjoyed and we’re exhausted. We’ve hoped and we’ve endured. We will not stop fighting for health and equality. But for the moment, we celebrate, and let the champagne flow over the streets.
New York is strange that way
shedding shops and
birthing new buildings,
all while you’re
waiting to cross a street or
watching a parade roll by.
In the years since you’ve been here
violent waves of gentrification
have washed over the land
you once knew.
It seems to some like
a shot to the concrete heart
but is a death much slower
change strangling livelihoods
so you’re left to mourn
your favorite places
McLoughlin’s and Boyle’s Bar,
Benny’s Burritos,
the deli around the corner
with the nice man from Pakistan,
as the paint dries
and the sun winks
knowingly
at the streets.
New Yorkers are strange that way
missing the ways things were
forgetting the ways
they’ve changed shape
to find a place
in this endless puzzle
of nine million people.
But under the layers of soot and grime
in the rare moments of quiet
between sirens and shouts
in the early hours of morning
when the buses sleep in Jersey
and the Hudson flows in silence
you can find exactly who you were
when you came here.
This piece was originally published in the anthology, A Letter to my Freshman Self: Domers Reflect on their Undergraduate Experience.
Dear Sara,
When you arrive at Notre Dame that hot afternoon in August you’re not going to feel at home right away.
This becomes especially apparent during your first-year seminar when your professor asks the class to write reflections on the meaning of “home”.
One by one, your classmates will talk about Notre Dame as a second home, a place that felt “right” the very first moment they stepped on campus. You do not read your reflection out loud. You are embarrassed, ashamed. Why does Notre Dame still feel unfamiliar to you, but is already home to others?
The first thing I’ll tell you is there is nothing to be ashamed of. The second thing I’ll tell you is you’re not alone.
Sara, there will be weekend nights when you’ll lie in your dorm room, listening to the sophomore girls next door giggle and blast music before going out. You’ll scroll through Facebook photos of high school friends partying at other schools, worrying you’ll be replaced by Thanksgiving. This notion is ridiculous. College won’t change what you’ve built over many years.
But you’ll make new friends for life, too, and these friendships will start budding early on. You don’t realize that some of the people you wandered campus aimlessly with those first few weeks will become friends you cry with at graduation.
So give it three months and everything will be okay. I can tell you all major life changes will take about this amount of time to adjust to. The only way to overcome homesickness is to endure it – but I know that’s not what you want to hear.
Sara, you were a perfectionist even before coming to Notre Dame, but college will exponentially pronounce that aspect of your personality. While it will help you succeed academically, I want you to be aware of its pitfalls.
Papers can only be perfected to a point. As an English major you’ll write so many of them but there’s no use getting frantic every time one’s due, skipping lunch with friends to rework a single sentence. Try to finish papers earlier so your days feel less crazed. I know that’s easier said than done.
Of course, perfectionism also extends to body image, especially at a school like Notre Dame of people where 75% of students were varsity athletes. You are so terrified of gaining the freshman fifteen that you become hyper-conscious of everything you eat. It doesn’t help that many other girls hold the same fear, silently comparing plates at the dining hall and working out five times a week. You are healthy, active and young. Care less.
And try new things. That’s what college is for.
Sara, I’m proud of you for walking into The Observer office in the basement of South Dining Hall the third week of your freshman year. It won’t be easy stepping into an office full of strangers, but this small act will have the greatest impact on your college career. The Observer will help you dive into the larger Notre Dame and South Bend communities, and you’ll go on to become one of the leading editors as a senior.
Breaking out of your comfort zone is the best way to meet new people. Freshman year, do this as much as possible. Go to the dorm party even when your only acquaintance is the girl from Welsh Fam who sits next to you in Genetics class. Join a sports team even though you’re not very good at the sport. There are so many opportunities to get involved at Notre Dame and you never know the experiences you might have.
I promise, the loneliness you feel at first will fade fast. Milestones will fly by – you’ll cheer at your first football game as a student, watch snow fall gently on the Main Building, dress up for your first SYR. You’re not sure exactly when it arrives, but the “feeling” you’ve envied in so many others makes its way to you, and you’ll know you’re home.
I know the beginning is rough, but there are so many exciting things ahead of you. From studying abroad in London to living with friends off-campus senior year, some of the best four years of your life are yet to come.
The painting you painted for me, and for my siblings, is unlike any other work you’ve ever done.
Different from your other pieces, which are so precise, relentlessly realistic, this painting is full of broad brush strokes, composed of love and light. The painting captures essence and exact truths fall away. Because when I look at this painting a C+ is an A+, a failure is a learning moment, and no matter what I say or do, I can do no wrong.
That’s a very special work of art to have.
This painting you painted for me reflects your humor, and just the sight of it makes me smile. And if this painting depicted you, it would capture your laugh, the endearing way your eyes creased when you told a joke, and the way you beamed when surrounded by family.
This painting began when I was born and grew into something magnificent, a mural expanding over the 28 years I’ve been alive. And no matter where I was or what I went through, when I looked up, this painting was there.
This painting you painted for me. In your humbleness you’d say it’s worth nothing but it’s the lens through which I see the world. And because of this painting, everything I see is colored by your kindness and your light.
This painting, Grandpa, is forever hanging in my heart.
Some are light and airy
As a feather
Inconsequential as
Blowing on a cottony dandelion
And watching the pieces
Float onto the grass.
But others
Others take all your energy
To even lift
To contemplation
And just when you know what to do
They change form
Slipping through your fingers
Like water
But the hardest part
If you’re anything like me
Isn’t the decision,
But the aftermath of one
When regret and anxiety
Swirl manically inside of you
Like a fan you can’t switch off
A fan that’s spinning so fast
You fear
It might become unhinged
The days flutter by
While this decision somehow
Shades every aspect of your life
Crawls into parts of your body
You didn’t know
Doubt could reach
Until one morning you wake
Look around
And feel a strange sense of
Serenity
Because finally
You and your decision
Are one.
“Life is pretty good,” I say. “Nothing to note, really.”
Usually, everything is just status quo.
The funny thing is, the best things in life often take you by surprise—offering a minute or two of happiness that fades into the rest of the day. Sometimes, these little things don’t get the attention they deserve.
The first snowfall. Free pizza. A $20 bill that survives the wash in your pocket. Running into an old friend in a city of nine million people. Cursing the crowds in the subway, only to look up and see your favorite poem on the wall.
A couple from college having their first baby. Listening to the rain while you’re cuddled under a blanket, nursing a cup of tea. Driving on an open road with the windows down and music blasting.
When any Backstreet Boys, Spice Girls, or Third Eye Blind song plays at the bar.
A letter from a friend…in the mail.
A brilliant summer sunset that catches you off guard. Going to work on a “bad” hair day but getting more compliments on your hair than ever. Going out for a run and feeling a surge of energy, like your legs aren’t even yours, like you could keep running forever.
A conversation with a younger sibling and feeling overwhelming pride at the person they’ve become.
The realization that someone you like, but never thought you would be with, likes you too.
So often we “create” happiness—planning for vacations, weekends, dinners out with friends. We anticipate exciting things like a new job, an engagement, a move to another city, or other major life events that will lift our spirits for months at a time and change our outlook. But so many of life’s joys are unexpected. They’re threaded right into the fabric of the day along with the stresses and monotony. The smaller moments that happen so fast are among the happiest moments of all. We just didn’t think to take pictures of them or write them down.
“How’s life?” they ask.
“Life is good. Life is great,” I’ll say next time. Because I know it’s not always full of dramatic ups and downs that make for great stories on the phone.
Most of life is filled with little details we choose to either remember, or let slip away.
But together, they add up to something incredible.
SKETCHING A STORY 