Part of a Day in the Life

  Yesterday...

...and today.

I woke up about 1 today and am extremely disoriented. Yesterday I was in sandals happily snapping pictures and improvising a ditty about "Spring has come! Dum-te-dum! Spring is here at last!"

Today I awaken, aware that I've missed a WhatsApp appointment, throw open the blind to find everything covered in ice.

My Amazon delivery was waiting outside the apartment door. Happy.

Went down to discard the cardboard box it was in and found more packages in my mailbox -- new piano literature!  Happy.

Re-entered the building and in the 200 feet between the entrance and the elevator witnessed two different people coughing in the lobby without covering their mouths.  WTF? 

I'm in my apartment now. I won't come out again today.

Corona

Living during the COVID-19 pandemic, my thoughts range widely, provoked usually by a report on BBC, an episode of one of the many podcasts I subscribe to, or something posted to Instagram or YouTube. Today it was a post on Instagram about a family of nine undocumented immigrants living in a tiny shack somewhere on the East Coast. Some of them have already been sick but are recovering without the resources of wage income, health insurance, or access to healthcare or the internet.

I'm hearing a lot of both tongue-in-cheek and totally-serious complaints about the boredom of spending so much time at home -- alone or with kids, the inconvenience of not finding favorite products on the grocery shelves, and the cancelation of anticipated social events. All of this is just more of the same in a sense:  American exceptionalism and sense of entitlement. The story about the undocumented family opened my eyes and heart to a new perspective.

Via text and email, some friends are focused on the possibility that "something good will come out of all this." My response is that "good" and "bad" exist all the time. All in the assessment of the observer. I live in a large government-subsidized housing complex that I've sometimes pronounced a blessing and other times a curse since moving in several months ago. It just depends on the day...

Speaking of which, yesterday I was reminiscing about my historic home in Mississippi known as "the Yellow Fever House".  It was the site of the first yellow fever death in Holly Springs in 1878. I researched the epidemic and loved sharing the history with tourists who stopped by.

Yesterday I thought about the contrast between living alone back then in a house with a history of pestilence and living with a hundred other people now during the current pandemic. Some Holly Springs residents refused to even step onto the front porch of the house, more than a century after the epidemic ended, believing deadly contamination was still possible. 

Here at Babcock, some residents are wearing masks and surgical gloves and insisting on riding the elevator alone. Other more carefree or reckless residents continue to share space in a tiny, enclosed smoking pavilion in the garden that allows less than a foot of social distance. And some people have not been seen since the official lockdown -- no visitors; only healthcare professionals and delivery people admitted; closure of front office and furlough of all onsite staff -- took effect in early March.

Yellow Fever set off widespread anxiety, fear, and sadness during its reign. History repeats itself now.  The anxiety I feel is mostly dread of how my fellow humans will respond to prolonged isolation and other disruptions to routine the pandemic necessitates. It's now been recommended that Americans shelter in place through the end of April. What will life be like, feel like, sound like here in Babcock and across the nation two weeks from now? 

A first hint manifested here late last night. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted into my apartment. Someone has decided life is sufficiently offtrack to justify defying the no-smoking policy.

On Retreat in LFK

A couple of days ago I was standing at a bus stop on Mass Street, debating whether to ride the bus or walk the seven blocks to my friend's house. There's been relatively little snow but this Winter has been mean, physically and emotionally. Temperatures have regularly dipped to bone-chilling negatives -- humbling and dominating the body -- but have periodically soared during the day to ridiculously unseasonable highs.

The first 60-something-degree day made us silly. We abandoned hats and gloves. The air sparkled with sounds of greetings and laughter, like tinkling bells. Traffic hummed on Mass Street and included a few convertibles with tops down. It was like we'd all fallen in love. That night, the temperature dropped to 17 degrees. Our hearts were broken.

We were not as reckless and full-throttle in our enjoyment of the next faux Summer day.

On this day, though, the sun and sky and breeze and temperature were like a caress. The weather offered not a flamboyant promise that Winter was over but a congenial reminder that Spring will come. I was hatless but wore a lightweight, ankle-length coat. I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the blessed sun, the hem of my coat snapping briskly against my calves in the "in like a lion" breeze.

I was yanked from reverie and contemplation by the sound of a male voice shouting "Nigger!" as a car was passed about 10 feet away from me. The car had slowed as it approached the traffic light, which was turning from red to green.

The head and neck of a thirty-something white guy protruded from the rear passenger-side window. I registered the cartoonish exuberance of his features as the face withdrew and the car accelerated through the intersection.

For over a year now, I've been meditating every day in Sam Harris' Waking Up mindfulness meditation course. (You can try it, too, for free, by following the link at his website). I was unfazed by the hateful outburst and I believe my equanimity was due in large part to meditation practice.

Contrary to what some believe, my response was not a matter of denial or detachment from "reality". I didn't retreat to a la-la land in my head, clutching a security blanket of numbness or blithe disregard. I could see his face clearly. I remember the license plate number and make of the car. There were four people in the car and the driver was the only woman. As they passed, I watched through the rear window as she turned around and briefly chastised the passenger.

I saw and heard everything. Mindfulness practice enabled tremendous clarity. I saw with minimal distraction what was happening -- both in the surrounding environment and within myself -- and was not swept away into either stream.

This morning I heard a rebroadcast of Kamau Bell's story about an incident at the former Elmwood Cafe in Berkeley CA on the radio. Near the end of it, someone said something about fostering the capacity to see racism clearly without internalizing it.

I saw the face. Perceived the ignorance and hatred and stupidity etched thereon. Felt my own startle response and noted my thoughts about the irony of living nearly five years in Mississippi without ever being the target of the epithet but hearing it in Lawrence -- residents lovingly call it LFK, "Lawrence Fucking Kansas" because it's the most liberal place in the state -- on arguably the most beautiful day of the year thus far.

When I reached my friend's house I told him and his wife about what had happened. "I can remember being emotionally and psychologically unsettled by similar events in the past," I commented. "Well, eventually that ignorant older generation will die off," my friend proffered.

"Oh! Well, this guy seemed to be in his early 30s," I said. "And I don't really see bigotry as a generational problem."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Reflecting on my experience this many days later, I remember that I moved to Kansas the Spring after Drumpf became president. The waves of ignorance, greed, hatred, etc. that have swept the nation and world in the intervening months have expanded the possibilities for bigotry. Probably it's easier now to be called "nigger" anywhere and everywhere.  

It's a good time for practicing mindfulness.  

I'm Not Nice. Are You?

Nice is eroding the foundations of interpersonal discourse. It shows up in a variety of ways. Here's an example.

🌒

"No, no. You’re alright..."

I am sitting on a friend's porch drinking iced coffee and telling a story
from my unfocused youth.
Gesturing widely as I talk, I accidentally knock over my friend's glass.
“Oh! Damn!  I’m sorry,” I say.

“No, no. You’re alright,” my friend coos and runs to fetch a towel.

What?

Let’s break it down:  “No, no.” What’s she saying here?
Don’t apologize? I don’t want or need your apology? 
Is she saying an apology is inappropriate?
Unnecessary? 

“You’re alright.”  Well, yes, I do feel fine.
I’m not feeling damaged or at risk. Do I appear uncertain? 
Do I look like I need reassurance or comforting? 

I don’t want “apology” to be dislodged from the social protocol script.
I want to live in a world where people apologize when they spill a drink. I want
to live in a world where my friend accepts rather than negates my apology.
I want to live in a world where an apology doesn't suggest my self-esteem is lagging
or that I'm in need of rescue or succor.

Bert Nash

This is an unfinished, unpublished draft written back in June.  Oh well....

This month I landed a contract to work for two hours each week at the community mental health center.  From 1 to 3 on Tuesdays, I hang out with school-age kids in a frame built of theater arts with an emphasis on improvisation. Today was our fourth meeting.

The content of the program I offer is the same everywhere I go -- I've brought this stuff to Unitarian Universalists on retreat doing anti-racism work, to workshops for "unwed mothers" seeking stress reduction, to team-building seminars in corporate boardrooms and to Women's Studies classes in Indiana and California -- and it works because my fundamental objectives as a transformative performing arts educator don't really change.

I want to facilitate voice and silence. I want teach critical thinking and free thinking. Because so many people stand before groups of people with the intention of communicating and do it poorly or not at all, I want to spread the word about what works and doesn't work when performing. I want to help folks rediscover how interesting they are, and expand the possibility of what they can accept about themselves and others.

All of this is true and there's more I could say but the bottom line truth is that the arts changed my life for the better and continue to do so; and I've witnessed the life-changing power of theater arts so many times that I cannot help but love this work and believe in it.

I love the work. I really like when I'm paid to do it. My best-ever contexts, though, involve damaged or at-risk or problem kids.  I only found this out after nudging myself to take a deep breath and say "yes" to invitations to work with these populations.

What's happening in the current gig is amazing. Mind-blowing. Revolutionary. Transformative.  The kids are popping like flowerbuds in the spring. There's long arc amazing like the nonverbal child who was making no eye contact four weeks ago who touched my hand today and asked if she could go first next Tuesday. There's short arc amazing like the child who had two noisy meltdowns in the first 10 minutes I was there today who hugged me at the end of his group's hour and later joined the other group for more theater games. He told the teacher in the other room he had an idea he wanted to try.

Some of the kids have an adult shadow who sticks with them in case something comes up and they need support and individual attention. It's been a little weird sometimes and today I figured out why:  some of them have a sort of security guard vibe about them. They're like human fire extinguishers, here in case something catches fire.

They thought they saw something on fire a few weeks ago when I asked for a volunteer and one kid raised his hand and approached me. Another boy, whose participation so far had been making noises and shouting "That's stupid" at random moments, jumped up a few seconds later and shouted "I volunteer."

"Just a second too late," I said, "but welcome back from the brink."  I observed a couple of staff exchange looks like "Did she really just say that?" The kid scowled. He wasn't happy. He started working on a full-on breakdown. He kicked the wall and stormed out of the room. I got the feeling some of the staff thought I'd made that happen.

Today, the anticipated blaze finally hit. We were playing "One Scene, Three Attitudes" in which trios of actors (kids) are assigned a situation, e.g., getting a haircut, flying to the moon, babysitting your cousin and given a few minutes to think of three different attitudes toward the situation.  When the trio takes the stage, each actor will express the attitude with face and body.

We've played the game before. Today I added the challenge that the actor must improvise a few lines from inside the attitude.  To illustrate what improvising a few lines might sound like, I gave a sample situation of Mother's Day.  "What are three attitudes someone could have about Mother's Day?" I asked.

"Very very happy because I have the best Mom," said one child.

"Scary," offered another child.  "Scary?" I repeated.  "What's scary about Mother's Day?"

"I'm a super-hero and I can use super powers." We'd had a game earlier in the day about super-heroes.  "Are you a super hero who doesn't like Mother's Day?"  "Yes!" he said.  "OK. I get it," I said.

"What else?  We need one more attitude," I prompted.  A boy offered "Sad."

"OK.  Sad. Why would someone be sad on Mother's Day?" I asked. The staff member beside him gasped, gave me a look of mild horror, and began shooting looks at a staffer on the other side of the room.   "Because someone is sad or a little sad about Mother's Day," he expounded.

"OK. Like someone who doesn't have a mother. Maybe their mom died or something," I said.

"Trigger!" the staffer muttered and glared at me.

"Yes, because his mom died," the kid said.

"We're okay," I assured the staffer.  "OK. I get it. So we would want to see a happy face and body, a scary face and body and a sad face and body," I continued.  At which point the staffer gave me a look and left the room.

We finished the hour minus one staffer. I wasn't surprised when the Director called me into her office as I was leaving.

We just have to be so careful with these kids. You can't know what will set them off and none of us professional therapists. "So don't mention death?" I asked.  Well, maybe. Or don't mention death in the context of a holiday or a family member, she offered.

Through the Looking Glass

In Lawrence, things are vaguely familiar but undeniably altered.

For awhile, Unity Church hired me every other month for a gig. Eventually I chafed under the "no instrumentals" rule. Prayers and sermon and announcements from the pulpit...song lyrics projected onto the big screen...guest musician singing to you.  At Unity your thoughts are always guided by someone saying or singing something. 

The fitted sheet in my new queen-size bed linens set is larger than queen but smaller than king. I fold the top sheet in half to prevent it dragging on the floor. The set contains six pillow cases.

As part of a summer youth program at the mental health center, I led an 8-week theater arts curriculum. I asked several times to meet with the staff beforehand to coordinate my offering with their program objectives but received no response.  At the end of the program, no one but the kids said thanks or goodbye. I requested a debriefing meeting to get some feedback on my debut professional effort in Lawrence.  It's been a month; my request was neither granted nor acknowledged.

Public transportation stops around sundown and doesn't run at all on Sunday in a town that brags about being more "woke" than the rest of the state.

 Things sorta look familiar here but they feel different. They don't quite fit.

I still say it was a mistake to move here but some of the most important lessons of my life have been learned through mistakes.

I'm waking up now it seems.  Two weeks ago I sold the car. After two years of paying enough in gas, repairs, registration and insurance to "buy" the car three times over every year, I decided to stop shooting myself in the foot. 

Two or three months ago it dawned on me:  if I'd applied for subsidized housing when I first arrived, I would be at the top of the two-year waiting list now.  With better-late-than-never optimism, I completed an application Amazingly, it took less than three months to rise to the top of the waiting list.  This week I move into a top floor apartment at Babcock Place where rent and utilities will cost one-third of what I've been paying.

I never read Alice Through the Looking Glass. Does she make it through and out?  Does she learn something along the way?

Film Recommendation: Mountain (2017)

Quite possibly the most beautiful film about people I'll never meet, doing things I will never do, in places I will never see, for reasons I will never understand, that I will ever see.

Thought-provoking to the max.  A meditation and a sermon all in one. Worth seeing.

Call Me Miss Manners...or Something

Tip:  When you want to invite someone out to dinner or you'd like to spend time with your friend in some other way,

do not begin the conversation with "What are you doing tomorrow?"

or

"Are you busy Thursday?"

This intro, in effect, puts your friend on the spot -- essentially saying, "show me yours first" -- and that is neither your intention nor the objective of the interaction.

What your friend is doing tomorrow or Thursday really isn't any of your business, in the first place; nor is it the heart of the matter.  The heart of the matter is that you'd like to spend time with her.

So just say that.

"Hey, I'd love to have dinner with you tomorrow night.  Are you open?"

If your friend has a conflict, she'll let you know. 

If you start with "What are you doing tomorrow?" and I list for you everything I'm doing tomorrow, you now possess my agenda and we're no closer to talking about what you really wanted to talk about.  As well, I have disclosed, revealed, but what have you revealed?

You might consider my agenda and decide "Oh, she's busy. She can't have dinner with me" when, in fact, I'm eager to spend time with you and nothing on my schedule is fixed and inflexible.  We've just wasted time on agendas and internal deliberations and missed the essential question altogether.

Approach your friend with love, tell them what's on your heart, and let them respond.  Three simple steps. 

Curtain Down

 . 

I am done.

Just got word that I was NOT chosen for the part-time, temporary Materials Handler position (i.e., book shelver) I applied for at the library.

I'm taking this as official proof that I am unemployable.

Monday, I'll go get my name on the subsidized housing waiting list.  If I'd done this when I first arrived in Lawrence, I'd be at the head of the list now.

I'm poor.

I'm not deflated or angry or frustrated. I'm just done. Ready to get off the job-hunt ferris wheel and redirect my focus toward learning how to live with what I have. There's actually some relief attached. The hunt was stressful and humiliating. I have become Mother Woods.

Any Port In A Storm? Not yet...

I want money because there are things I need and places I want to go that I cannot afford. So far, my focus has been on finding "a job" as a means of securing funds.

The report widely promulgated currently is that the job market is booming. There's lots of "work" and lots of employers are hiring and lots of people are finding jobs.

So my claim of "I can't find work" is viewed suspiciously by some.

I want money but I am not willing to do "anything" to get it.

I have rejected some offers and ideas because I've decided I am either unwilling or unable to --

work for $7 an hour or work 40 hours a week at a job I don't like or work for a company whose ethics are questionable or volunteer indefinitely in hopes of some day being hired or commute 45 minutes to and from a job that pays $10 an hour or break the law.

I hated the desperation and stress of job-hunting when I was younger. Now I hate it because the process favors employers rather than job seekers. It is a patently dehumanizing and unfair system and there seems to be no way and nowhere to file a grievance.

Maybe this bothers everybody as much as it bothers me but apparently it's the only game running.

Is there another way to get money?

The Great Mystery

Last night I dreamed I had meticulously packed for a destination. The journey would involve several stops but I didn't know when or where or for how long I would stop.

I put my bags in my brother's car. When we stopped I wasn't sure if this was a stop on my journey or a quick stop he needed to make on our way to perhaps the airport, perhaps the train depot. He left when I got out of the car but said he'd be back for me.

It was a season of celebration, parades in the street that reminded me of Mardi Gras but people were only mildly enjoying themselves. No cheering or laughter or applause. Sitting on the floor in the main room of a house where women and children lived, I examined colorful art by children. All around me people were speaking in a language I could not identify. I saw so much that I wanted to photograph but my camera and suitcase and cell phone were in my brother's car.

Day turned into night and then stretched toward light again. I wondered if my brother would ever return. I wondered if I'd missed my connection. Only my joy in the children's art felt true and familiar.

Be Like a Mirror

Every move since I left New Orleans has been at best ill-considered and most of the time a mistake.

Am I about to do it again?

With my most sincere Quit underway, I lay awake in my bedroom last night drenched in the smell of cigarette smoke wafting up from the apartment downstairs. One more evidence that I should never have moved to Lawrence, KS, I thought. I spent some minutes arranging a list of unfortunate coincidences and painful synchronicities since May 2017.

Meditation and piano students are my life-savers for now.

Valuable Feedback

A piano student recently told her mother:

Miss Alex helps me do things that I don't think I can do.

Truly amazing how without a syllabus or an explicitly expressed mission statement, this child has discerned a primary pillar of my objective as an arts educator. 

Not amazing how gratifying it is to hear her impression.

New Breath

I am back.
Where?

Today is the 7th day since I broke my 190-day smoke-free streak and
my third consecutive day meditating under the guidance of Sam Harris' Waking Up course and
the first day since May of last year that I've felt like engaging the world this way.

It's been a hard winter.  A hard year and a half in Lawrence, KS. A hard two-years-plus since that abomination was "elected" president.

I have carved out some space to breath in. No more Facebook. No more NPR. Daily meditation.

Things are feeling not so hard. 

Anybody Listening?

I'm back.

Sorta.

Insight

Being present for you and the world is less about me showing up with all I've got

including gifts and experience
and agenda and recommendations


And more about laying all that aside so there's space for the present moment and whatever you're dealing with.

The Free State Forum

Last night I accidentally wound up at "The Free State Forum" an ACLU event held every 18 months that boasts food and music, awards, fundraising, speakers.  It's a gala as it turns out.

A friend who regularly sends me email notices about social actions like marches and sit-ins in the offices of elected officials called me a couple of days ago and invited me to join a group that was driving to Overland Park for "an ACLU thing" on Friday afternoon. I mistakenly thought it was a town hall type thing.

I don't really know why I said "yes". It may have looked like a lifeline to me on that day, a distraction from the familial conflicts and financial struggles that have consumed my energy and darkened my outlook for the last few weeks.

On the 35-minute drive, my friend told me more about the event.  I heard the words "fundraiser" and "keynote" and "dinner," noticed my friend's attire and makeup, and realized I was seriously underdressed in my ski cap, sweatshirt, jeans, and moccasins. "Oh, you always look elegant," she told me as we approached the wide, shiny entrance of the DoubleTree by Hilton hotel. "Right," I said. "Being tall helps. Hope it works tonight."

Two steps into the building, memory of a stay in a different DoubleTree hotel sprang up.  I was attending a massive, international social justice convention a decade ago.  On that occasion, I slept for the first and only time (to date) in a king-size bed. The linens felt to be milled in heaven. I said then and continue to claim it was the best sleep I've ever had in a hotel.

It is a fond memory -- beds and sleeping have long ranked high as "a few of my favorite things" -- so I was smiling as we strode into the lavish lobby of the DoubleTree by Hilton where the pre-dinner mingling was to happen.  Someone was playing "When I Fall in Love" on a gleaming baby grand piano and a well-dressed, mostly-white crowd of people wandered around inside the wide hallway, meeting and greeting each other. 

My friend and I were part of a carpool of five people from Lawrence but she was the only one of them I'd ever laid eyes on before yesterday. The five convened at the registration table and were each given a small, paper-clipped packet containing a peel-and-stick name badge (not my name but that of someone whose place I was taking at Table #22); a card entitling the bearer to a complimentary autographed copy of The Soul of The First Amendment, a book by Floyd Abrams, the keynote speaker for the evening; and a pair of cards that could be exchanged for free drinks at one of three temporary bars stations.  "Oh, good. I'll have a drink. Then I won't care how I'm dressed." Ha.  Me making a joke.  Not funny, I guess.  No one in the group even smiled. 

Somehow this put me at ease. The unfunny mismatch interloper is a role and a psychic space I know pretty well.

On my way to a conversation pit I spotted near the edge of the room, I picked up Abrams' book from a long table stacked high with them. "Lost in a book" is another space I know pretty well.  I could just hang out in a book until time to enter the dining hall. "Thanks," I said to the two, pretty young women staffing the table where I surrendered my gift card. "Have you read it?" Both of them became very fluttery then -- talking and giggling and fidgeting without ever actually answering the question. I think they thought the correct answer was "yes" but neither of them had read the book so the question discombobulated them.

I sat down as the pianist launched into a bossa nova tune that sounded like a polka as she misplaced the primary beats of accent. Wonder how she got this gig? I thought to myself.  I could do that...  

To my surprise, the others in the carpool followed me from the registration desk and took the other chairs in the pit. With everyone seated, my hostess, teacher, and performer personae took over.  Smiling, asking open-ended questions, and encouraging people to interact. I  stoke conversation like building a campfire sometimes.  Like I need the warmth of free-flowing conversation to feel at ease in social situations.  Once the flame caught, I slipped away to retrieve my free drink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pace of arrivals quickened and the temperature at our end of the hallway grew steadily cooler in the draught from the three pairs of gilt doorways. Some of us were hungry enough now to mention it. Dinner was to have begun at 6 but at 6:10 we were still mingling in the lush lobby listening to lounge music. I'd had my drink. I led a small contingent into the dining room. "All they can do is say 'not yet' and throw us out," I said. They did not throw us out and within minutes the other doors to the dining hall were opened and guests began to file in and sit down at their assigned tables.

I kinda like when that happens. When I end up at the front end of a trend. I like following my gut and I like having company on the way.

The agenda brochures at each place setting boasted a hefty program:  at least 6 speakers in addition to a keynote address and two award presentations. I groaned inwardly and allowed that I might have to use the other drink ticket. 

As it turned out, I did not use the other ticket. I left the event feeling nostalgic, a little sad, and surprisingly inspired. Despite varying degrees of competency as public speakers, each of the people who spoke revealed passion and a rigorous commitment to the work of the ACLU and the survival of American democracy. The audience received their remarks with warmth and solidarity. I felt myself in the company of kindred spirits. I was surprised to feel optimism surging through me for the first time since the presidential election of 2016. 

One of the speakers stressed that the ACLU is not a bi-partisan project but a non-partisan project. His comment made me aware that having lost faith in both major political parties of the U.S., my social activism has dwindled. I have been unable to latch on and join in the Resistance. After an initial enthusiastic diligence, writing and calling elected representatives, met by unanswered calls...jammed voicemail boxes....voting however the fuck they wanted on whatever I was calling about...noting the disappointing instances where money trumps everything else and democrats and republicans do group hugs...

I like the ACLU a lot right now.  Just signed to Follow them on Twitter. 

I also like hanging around

• people who read
• people who are interested in the law, and justice
• people who drink
• people who get an idea and run run run with it

Last night I hung out with the cool nerds while wearing the wrong clothes but it didn't matter at all in the end. 

Ignorance at Daybreak

I found myself wide awake at 5:20 a.m. on a Saturday. What in the world, I wondered and set about making coffee. Is it the conflict with my son? The stress of transitioning to my new town of residence? Money? National and international socio-political turmoil? Something I ate?

I took my coffee to the porch to sit and sip and watch the light encroach. 

It's been three hours now and I still don't know why I woke up so early, but neither do I know why a mourning dove and then a squirrel felt confident or curious enough to come within a few feet of me this morning. And I am unable to identify most of the sounds that emanated from the trees and shrubbery and sky as I sat. I noticed all the new webs on the porch, constructed since I carefully cleared all the web-lace yesterday and realized I am also clueless about how spiders choose a site and how long it takes them to rebuild and whether their webs are improvisations or careful designs.

It is humbling to remember that although I am a part of nature, I know so little about the community.

New Neighbors

A little after 1 a.m. I heard what sounded like someone hammering nails in the apartment below mine. Based on the pattern and placement of the sound, I imagined my neighbor hanging a series of framed prints at eye level all the way around the room. Tap-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap-tap....then a couple minutes of silence before repeating the sequence.

I was already in bed. It had been a long day for me since I had awakened spontaneously before 5 a.m. I had actually dozed off and the hammering woke me up.

When the pounding commenced for the eighth time I got up and walked downstairs, thinking to inquire "How much longer?" There was no response when I knocked.  I waited and knocked again. No response.

I returned to my apartment and wrote a note:

Hello -- I'm your upstairs neighbor in Apt. 307. Welcome to the building. So glad you're a musician -- me too! I hear you hammering at the moment -- it's about 1 in the morning. Would you mind please doing the hammering a little earlier in the evening? Thanks. The Lady in 307 

I walked down and slipped the note under the door. No more hammering that night.

Two days later I found a note on the living room floor, written on the back of my note.

Hi there -- Sorry about that. Unsure what you mean by "hammering" but now I know the sound carries more than I thought. I've lived here for several years so I suppose I should welcome you to the building! I've heard you on the piano and it sounds lovely! Sorry again for the late night strumming! Thanks. Best Megan (lady in 207)

I am charmed. Although I'm a little embarrassed, I don't want her to get the wrong idea so I've written a response:

Megan -- I love the strumming.  Strumming guitar is wonderful at any hour. Maybe the hammering was coming from next door? I thought you were new because I've never heard any 🎼 until this week. My name is Alex and thanks for the welcome.

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