Dear Spring, Where Are You?!

To drive the point home about New York's "Island" days being surrounded by a sea of winter, here is a photo of what greeted me after work last night.

This morning's wind chill was 21 degrees.

Saving Grace of the "Island" Day

Today was what I've termed an "Island" day - a single, isolated day of hot and glorious sunshine amid a sea of a torturous winter. These Island days are tricky. They trick us into believing summer is here. We've been in New York this time of year before, some of us for decades on end, and we know those cafe doors don't stay propped open until at least May and that seasonal patterns that have been in existence for millennia don't suddenly change to accommodate the pleas of a Cabin-Fever-afflicted population. But still, somehow, we believe the impossible. Summer is here.

This belief is evident on the face of every New Yorker. In place of the usual frustration, apathy, and preoccupation, there is the familiar shape of bowed lips and a lightness to the step. Most interestingly, when we discover summer to be here unexpectedly, we suddenly notice one another. Each stranger is a soul with whom to share the ecstasy overtaking us in the presence of the sun.

On these Island days, it's impossible to be annoyed, and it's impossible not to smile. The little yippie dog on the sidewalk that was so annoying yesterday is now the cutest ball of wiry fur I've ever seen. The woman on the subway whose elbow is inserted into my armpit is today my partner in a laughable predicament.

The breaths that used to fill my lungs with an icy sting suddenly shoot energy to my toes, and spreading my arms in the wind, I forget momentarily that they aren't wings.

Tomorrow we may be cast again into the sea of winter and reminded that our will is not powerful enough to altar the rhythms of the universe. However, in the precious hours we all spend believing otherwise, we are graced with hope and given just enough energy to survive until that time.

Flight

Standard year-in New York claustrophobia hit approximately 1 month ago (only 1 month behind schedule). As a seasoned New Yorker friend pointed out, it's possible that this year-in claustrophobia is indistinguishable from my near-end-of-winter cabin fever, a concept with which I was previously unfamiliar.

I believed the remedy to my condition to be temporary flight from the city. I chose for the destination 2 riverside towns walking distance from each other: Tarrytown and Sleep Hollow (as in the legend). Both are in the Hudson Valley just half an hour train ride upstate from Manhattan. Why haven't I left the city before?? I travel TWICE that amount of time to hang out with friends in Brooklyn.

I tend to experience life with my eyes, partly because of natural tendency and partly because of the "aesthetic sensitivity" my profession requires. During this excursion yesterday, I consciously took a different approach, leaving my camera at home. Shocker, I know. I did sneak more photos than I intended on my iPhone (but how could I not?...a river, a sunset, a stream, and a legendary cemetery all in one outing).

Nevertheless, primarily, I listened.

Here are some of the things I heard in Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow:

1. A rushing stream, at first a distant hissing background and later a dominant roar
2. The squeaking of the chain of my swing
3. Many a train horn
4. The chug-a-chug of wheels on the tracks
5. Crunching gravel under foot steps
6. A bird or two
7. Lots of faraway plane engines
8. Wind in my ear during the swings backwards (forwards was silent)
9. An ambulance siren
10. Crispy leaves crunching

I also used my nose a little bit and smelled the sweet must of river water. It smelled just like Texas. I guess that's just whose rivers I know best.

Main Street in Tarrytown

Tarry Town

Sleepy Hollow

Sleepy Hollow

2 people dangling legs from a bridge over the stream that smelled like Texas

The stream that smelled like Texas

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery (where the Headless Horseman rode)

Sunset

Reacquainted

Last weekend I was reacquainted with an old friend, a dear, dear old friend with 88 beautiful key.

The richness of ivory and wood may be ousted by the inauthenticity of plastic, but nevertheless, when I stand at the window and put my headphones on, my fingers dance me to another place.

Thank you odd repair-man Armen, for turning a broken and abandoned set of keys into a vehicle that once again carries me into a joyous world.

As I'm still lacking a sheet music stand and a table of the appropriate height, playing requires standing, and reading music requires hunching. My latest endeavor has been figuring out how to play the beautiful, simple, and elegant songs Yann Tiersen wrote for the movie Amelie.

I have even been able to share my new piano with friends. Victor is rockin out - totally in his own world. Love it!