The Horizon

Three weeks later, I smiled for I had become one with New York, wandering up and down the streets of Manhattan, loving the gaggles of people on my street with a morning “Hello” and an evening “Goodnight” I rode the subway and learned the etiquette of looking up and down and not into anyone’s eye, (though, I stared at people anyways)…

When I recall that day I smile, its hard not to. It changed my life. I may not be the most confident woman you will ever meet, like everyone I struggle: I have put some hefty walls up, thus making it difficult to be found. But that day, he gave me courage. He showed me, me, in his eyes. And, I liked who he saw…

I’ll name a street after you, I said.
You said you’d name one after me
- Belle Street.

I smiled inside
I never forgot
————-
I took love for granted.
Thought it would always be.

Perhaps he was my first love, or maybe I was too naive to understand. We met as teenagers and as much as we wanted to, we never dated. Our timing was always always wrong. Instead he stayed my best friend. I was special to him, as he to me, I loved being special. As time passed by, he ended up leaving, to always return. I would be working in one of the many hometown jobs I would come to hold down, and then, as if I sensed something, I would look up, and there he would be, waiting - leaning - smiling. The greeting, perfect - every time…

It’s almost 14 years now, since we met. The timing never right (will never be right) and maybe it seems tragic, but it can’t be, because perhaps it was simply, that we were there for each other - when it mattered.

Riding the subway today, there was this little girl seated, squished between her family. She kept looking at me, so I kept smiling at her. Every time I smiled, she beamed. - It kinda made my day, she was so sweet.

… I am scared of loving it (Victoria, BC) so much that I loose sight of the big picture. NYC has become this huge dream and when I think about the future, I think about walking down the busy streets, writing emails and stories in Bryant Park, photographing the people, the architecture, the stories. I think about the art gallery I would love to have, and doing love-based missions. I imagine my very first NYC art show. I think about great church and great friends, I think about becoming a writer (after I take a million classes on grammar) and sitting in my apartment (somewhere in Harlem) drinking tea and tapping away at the keyboard through the wee hours of the night. I think about the subway buskers and how they always made my day - when I was there, and hope they will make my day in the future…

I remember the exact moment when I truly started to care about you, as a person. When I knew, you were someone I was excited to know, be friends with. We were on the train going to the big game, and I was telling you about my dreams, you were so excited. You had this sparkle in your eye that told me you believed in everything I was saying. That I really could go all the way (career wise) - I was startled, that you, almost a complete stranger would respond in such a profound way … I was amazed to be sitting next you this person, whom I had just met;  yet I felt like, I had known forever.

Photography snuck up on me, it picked me. It came so swiftly; there was no chance of denial. My talent became affirmed over and over.  Almost like it wanted to teach me to believe again. I can see now, affirmation is my love language. When people tell me “Sherri, you can do it!” – That’s when I see it, feel it for certain in my heart that I really can. The night I was to leave, He and I, we sat upon his rooftop and we dined under the stars, talking for hours.  It was bittersweet; I felt for the first time, he was vulnerable with me. The initial “obnoxious” guy was gone and we were two people who needed to talk, be with someone who cared enough to listen. As much as I needed someone to believe in me, he needed someone to care about him, for exactly who he was and not who people perceived him to be.

What happens when your dreams change; you plan your path and suddenly, it shifts.

Almost a year ago I sojourned to New York City, New York.

As a girl from small suburban city Canada, I’m sure you can imagine my graceful entrance to NYC, how wide my bright blue eyes stretched, as my naive little self clamored off the bus (in West Harlem), to proceed down a foreign street to my new little apartment.  Now further imagine my struggle, as I wheeled my suitcases past, the gaggles of men, the pungent stench of garbage and through the sounds of Spanish music that clung to the air on high volume. 

As I unlocked the door, I breathed in and ever so painfully trying to smile thus proceeding my way into my looming apartment; I was so scared. The fears of the unknown world kept me indoors for the next 24hours.  My housemates were very welcoming; they drew maps and gave directions to get coffee and to attend church. Instead of venturing though, I spent the day sleeping and while in-between sleeping I was thinking, “Can I go outside? Is it safe?” I tucked myself away on the top bunk in my unfamiliar pea-sized bedroom. Finally when sleep would no longer come, I left the cocoon and quietly climbed down to wander the apartment. I crept around almost on tiptoe as if I had to be in silence. Old rumors ran through my mind, like an old movie: as to how unsafe Harlem was. The constant thoughts became questions, “What was I thinking; moving to New York City - all by myself? How can I go outside? What do I say - do I say Hi?”

she would like to be witty when it matters
she wishes she did not just not stumble - stutter…
shuffle along
a grown woman
lost in whimsical hopes
and meaningless hyperbole
she secretly owns a little black dress, or four
that’s right four - she feels defensive inside
but she’s really not
her broken heart is sewn together with barbed wire
she might be jaded, a little
jaded with her little black dresses
hung neatly in her closet…
or maybe now they have fallen to the floor
she thinks of the season, she thinks of the sun
in her dreams
the dresses turn to yellow
and she puts one on and twirls
she wears it out to play
lost in her whimsical hopes
and meaningless hyperbole

Today I felt beauty from the rain, splashing my face. The rain this spring has been magnificent in downpour, making this city that never stops, come to a crashing halt, with every one but, street vendors running for cover. Appearing from nowhere, (carts full of umbrellas) yelling, “Umbrellas five dollars - only five dollars!” During one of these said downpours, I stand huddled in the doorway of Victoria Secret, camera to my face, digitally capturing the wondrous chaos. The people, milling around the doorway so distracted by the rain, no one noticed the click of my camera. After a bit I leave happy with the faces I have captured and start walking (without an umbrella) down the soggy street, the rain slowly dripping from my bangs onto my sunglasses and down my face. I relish it: for some reason, the warm bountiful rain brings me joy. After a bit of walking, a middle-aged man approaches with his umbrella and he guides me down the street under the dryness of his umbrella. I feel like a princess, being swept away by her prince, when suddenly he disappears and I am left again to fend for myself. I then walk gleefully to a cafe for my daily London Fog and head soaked from head to toe to the NYC sardine can. – I always forget and end up catching the train during rush hour.

I am sitting in a park blogging, and the best part of this adventure is that my only worry seems to be whether or not I’ll get pooped on by a pigeon. I wonder if that happens to people often? I keep getting beamed in the head by these little buds falling from the trees. It is very windy. It is a nice warm windy that opposites the winds of Winnipeg, Canada (where until two weeks ago, I resided). I am eating this delectable bean soup and drinking a lime soda (I bought it because I remember it from an italian cafe I onced worked at called Haz Beans!) - a man just interrupted me. He was a nice old man talking about how he’s a PC man but MAC’s are easy to use. As he talked I was thinking about how long he would stand here and talk to me because I just wanted to write. But then I realized how refreshing it is to talk to someone other than myself - I just got pelted again. So instead of complaining think it might be nice to revel in the random interuptions. I am finding that it can be rare in this city, for people to talk to you. I think maybe in listening to them, I might learn a lot. I found a website www.bryantpark.org - it tells me everything I need to know about this park: I found all these free concerts, movies and writers workshops. I signed up for a bunch of workshops and I am coming here to see Norah Jones, Rascal Flatts, and a few others that I can’t remember. I am also going to come and see old movies in the park. I am so elated right now, I feel so free.