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Posts Tagged ‘Eastie’

tulips-pot-red

When the quarantine orders came down in mid-March, I thought: at least I’ll still be able to run. 

I kept running, mostly as usual – even a little more than usual – for five weeks, except when it poured rain. (Thank goodness for online yoga.) I live in a neighborhood with lots of public space: the Harborwalk, several parks and the East Boston Greenway. I love a three- or four-mile run through these spaces, and I was enjoying the chance to run nearly every day. Until my body mounted a serious protest to those weeks of working on a hard kitchen chair.

I panicked. Then I paid attention. Then I bought a foam roller and took nearly a week off running and did a lot of resting and stretching. The past week or two, I’ve mostly been back to running, though I’m taking breaks to walk more often, and sometimes shortening the distance.

tulips-red-gold

After several days of feeling good, I was expecting to go on a longer run this bright morning, but I woke up with tired muscles from last night’s long walk. So instead of the planned four-ish miles, I took a slow walk/jog down the hill, through the shipyard, down the pier and back, through the park. It wasn’t the longer run I had hoped for, but it had sunshine and movement and flowers, and it felt good to get out and move. I followed it up with some yoga, which was just what I needed.

I’m slowly learning to trust my body: though I’ve done yoga for years, running has both helped and forced me to inhabit these bones, muscles and tendons in a new way. I am learning to pay attention when my body says stop or wait or maybe not today. And I’m also looking forward to the day – maybe tomorrow, maybe next week – when she whispers Yeah. Let’s go. 

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Hello, friends. Happy Monday, and happy May.

I’m writing to you from my kitchen floor, where I sometimes sit for a bit these days to give myself a break from the kitchen table. (A couple of weeks ago, I started having serious soreness and muscle tightness – at least partly caused by weeks of sitting on a hard chair.)

I was a bit burned out after 30 straight days of posting stories from quarantine, but I’d like to keep creating and sharing with you during May. To that end: daily tulips, and a daily thought, at least on the weekdays.

It is tulip season in Boston (hallelujah), and I’ve been snapping and sending daily blooms to a friend in California (hi Allison!) who loves them as much as I do. Both the parks around town and my neighborhood are full of glorious, nodding beauties, and I want to share them with you. (I may switch to #dailylilacs or something if we run out of tulips.)

Today’s thought, like so many of mine right now, is related to connection. In this extended time of social distancing, I have been missing time with my people, though I still get to hug my guy, thank goodness. Several friends of mine are feeling the same way: those with kids/partners at home need some additional adult interaction, and those of us who live alone are dying for face-to-face connection, period.

As we head into the next phase of whatever-this-new-normal-is, I’ve got to make some shifts: I can’t count on one person for everything, nor can I spend all day, every day, alone with my own thoughts. We are all taking calculated risks, even if they’re small, and I need some of mine to include community.

So last week I took a (distanced) walk with a girlfriend, and made plans to check in regularly with another on the phone. I FaceTimed a friend from high school, and took a long, glorious Sunday afternoon ramble with a local friend. We stopped by Downeast to buy some cider, and we waved at a few folks I know. It might not be magic, but it’s helping.

My therapist expressed it well: how can I sprinkle in moments of being seen throughout the week? As we head into May, I’m keeping that in mind: how to seek out that space for connection, and create it for others.

Where are you this week, friends? I’d love to know. I’ll be back tomorrow, with more tulips.

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One of the things that surprised me when this pandemic hit was the grocery store panic.

I understand a bit of stocking up, especially if you’re not going to go out as much for a while. (I come from Texan and Midwestern farming families, and one of my grandmothers had a basement stocked with enough canned goods to weather the apocalypse. After my Papaw’s funeral, when Aunt Carmen and I cleaned out the fridge, we had to sneak a jar of long-expired mayonnaise and another of salad dressing out the side door so Mimi wouldn’t see us.)

Anyway, in the face of looming quarantine, it only made sense for people to buy a bit more than usual, if they could. But I was shocked by the stories of empty shelves and long grocery lines, and especially flummoxed by the toilet paper hoarding. It dismayed me, too: I felt like we were giving into our worst impulses before things had even gotten really bad.

When the big stores have been short on some supplies – even Trader Joe’s was low on pasta sauce and toilet paper, for a while – the little bodegas in my neighborhood have still had the essentials. I’ve been dropping in once or twice a week, for eggs or peanut butter or a red bell pepper, and a little chitchat with the guy behind the counter. The TV is usually playing something in Spanish, and I’ll see a kid coming in to buy a candy bar, or a Latina grandmother shopping for dinner.

I don’t speak (much) Spanish, but I grew up hearing it on the street: Spanish is the first language of so many folks who live in Texas. Because Eastie is home to lots of immigrants from the Caribbean and other parts of Latin America, I hear a lot of Spanish spoken here, and it feels like home.

I’m grateful for the convenience of the bodega, the chance to support a small business, and the good chance that they’ll have what I need (including toilet paper). It makes me feel a bit more a part of the neighborhood, and it reminds me that so often, what we need is right here.

(Photo is of Molly Wizenberg’s roasted eggplant ratatouille, which I have made twice recently and am totally making again this weekend.)

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Princess Mia, aka Anne Hathaway, via GIPHY 

Hello, friends. We’re in the middle of week 4, over here (I realize some folks might be on slightly different timelines), and I am here to tell you: I am feeling all the feelings, pretty much every day.

There’s the deep gratitude for my beautiful apartment, my cozy neighborhood, the water views out my kitchen window and the new life I have built for myself here. There’s the (sometimes uncomfortable) awareness that I am privileged to stay home, to still get paid, to continue to have health insurance. There’s the awed thankfulness for the healthcare workers, postal and delivery folks, grocery store staff, transportation employees and others who are still going to work, keeping us fed and safe.

And then.

There’s the loneliness: I miss my coworkers, my yoga instructors, and oh man do I miss my florist. I miss my friends the most. We are doing our best with FaceTime and texting, but it is not nearly the same.

There’s also the ongoing fear and anxiety: wondering when and how things will get worse, if we (the city, the nation, me) are remotely prepared, what we (I) can do, other than staying home and washing our hands. There’s the deep uncertainty of how long will this last? When will things get better? What does ‘better’ even look like? 

And there’s the sudden, surprising joy: the magnolia tree down the street is in full glorious flower, as are the daffodils. I’ve been talking to my sister more often, and checking in on friends near and far. I’ve still got a few good books on the stack. And I’m moved, all the time, by the artists and writers and musicians sharing their work generously via social media.

Everything is heightened, I said to a friend the other day: all our normal fears and frustrations are thrown into sharp relief by this ongoing crisis. It is so much to hold, every day, all at once.

I am trying (oh, am I trying) to be honest about where I am each day: write it out, text a friend, do some yoga, text another friend, cry if I need to. To admit it is hard, and also celebrate the good stuff. Like the bike ride I took with my friend Marisa the other night, or the socially-distanced chat with my friend down the hill while her six-year-old walked across the porch on homemade stilts. Like the cherry blossoms, pink drifts of beauty, and the good meals I’ve (mostly) been making for myself. The endless cups of tea in my favorite mugs. The bear hugs from my guy, extra precious because I can’t hug anyone else right now.

So that’s where we are today, friends. All the feelings, all the time. How are you?

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Since the schools and daycare centers closed, my neighbors have been looking for ways to keep their kids occupied. Especially as the weather warms, I’m seeing a lot of sidewalk chalk in the neighborhood.

Rainbows are a popular theme (they’re in lots of windows, too, including mine). One family scrawled “Quarantine” on the brick wall of their house, and played some tic-tac-toe games on the sidewalk nearby. They also wrote all their names, which I found both lovely and heartbreaking: we are here. 

My friend Ally and her kids have created a couple of epic hopscotch games, involving directions like “Spin 3 Times” and “Dance Party” (see above). And last week, I saw a heartfelt complaint next to the hockey courts at the end of my street: “Mayor Walsh took our hockey nets! We our [sic] very upset!” Someone else had printed an answer beneath: “We are all not happy about how things are going, but we will get through this.”

I have yet to invest in my own sidewalk chalk (maybe I should?), but for now, I’m enjoying the messages I find on my runs and walks, like this one:

That’s all we can do. Love all, wash our hands, keep telling our stories, get outside in the sunshine when we can. And keep going. Somehow we’ll make it through.

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I live in the middle of a bustling city: home to nearly four centuries of colonial history, more than 60 colleges and universities, thousands of residents from all over the world. Boston is a geographically compact city by American standards, but it’s still bigger and louder and more diverse than the West Texas towns where I grew up and spent my young adulthood. My neighborhood of Eastie is home to more than 40,000 people, and the airport lies a mere half mile from my front door.

When I moved here, I had to get used to the planes: normally they fly overhead so frequently that they form a kind of constant background noise. There are also buses and cars, delivery trucks rumbling through the shipyard, families out for a walk or scooter ride, parents walking their children to school. My neighborhood has a lot of dogs, and some days it’s like the Twilight Bark in the park near my house: one of them has something to say, and the others take it up like a canine game of telephone.

One of the most noticeable changes from the quarantine, so far, is the quiet.

The planes are still flying, but there are so few of them now that I can hear each one distinctly, as it flies overhead. There are no school buses, no kids walking to school in the mornings (though the afternoon walks and scooter rides are still happening, to save the parents’ sanity). The city buses and car traffic have settled down considerably. And sometimes, it’s so quiet that you can hear the church bells.

There are other sounds, both inside and out: the ticking clock in my kitchen, the crackle and hiss of the old radiators in my apartment, the tall white masts clanking gently in the shipyard down the hill. Sometimes I can hear the wind howling through the tree branches, whipping around corners. If I’m lucky, I hear children’s laughter and those barking dogs from the parks on either side of my house: a reminder that we’re all still here, even now. And the birds – blissfully unaware of everything except the springtime – are holding their own conversations, which are particularly noticeable these days.

In the absence of so much city noise, we can hear some things more clearly, and although the quiet also unnerves me a little, I’m trying to listen.

What are you hearing these days, where you are? I’d love to know, if you’d like to share.

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This is the winter of lunchtime runs, hauling my running gear and bright blue sneakers to work in my gray backpack so I can get out on the Esplanade twice a week or so, catching the sunshine and whatever warmth it provides.

This is the winter of all the puzzles, spread out on my friend Chrissy’s coffee table: NYC signs and Italian hillsides and bucolic New England landscapes, worked a piece at a time while we talk about our lives.

This is the winter of Cooking Solo, Klancy Miller’s brilliant cookbook about doing just that. I’ve been eating her lentil soup (stuffed with other veggies), her lemony pancakes, her roasted veggies with tahini dressing, for weeks.

This is the winter of almost no snow and only a few extended cold snaps. I’m missing the brilliance of sunlight on reflected snowbanks (and worried about what it means for the climate) even as I give thanks for the lack of grey slush.

This is the winter of settling into Eastie, continuing to make a home in this neighborhood that became mine last year. I’m growing paperwhites in my kitchen window, meeting a few more neighbors, going to yoga and strength training classes at The Point on the regular.

This is the winter of a(nother) Harry Potter reread, undertaken in tandem with someone I love, walking alongside Harry and his companions as they learn and grow and face unbelievable evil with courage and love.

This is the winter of sharp loneliness and sudden tears, still mourning the death of my marriage and adjusting (in all ways) to a new landscape without it.

This is the winter of avocado toast, handfuls of clementines, chunks of Trader Joe’s crumbly English cheddar, Molly’s scones and Jessica Fechtor’s oatmeal cookies, soup simmered in my red stockpot, endless cups of Earl Grey.

This is the winter of runs along the Harborwalk, vivid sunset light reflected in the water, marking the tides and the miles with my feet and the pounding of my heart.

This is the winter of Tuesday indoor picnics in the Pru, hearty soups decanted into red-lidded Tupperware and heated in the office microwave, cloth napkins and on-the-go utensils and laughter before we hug and go our separate ways.

This is the winter of starting to heal, doing my best to welcome unexpected joys where they appear.

What does life look like for you this winter?

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