"Who's Tripping Over My Bridge?"

credit: bcfamily.ca

As the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff goes, the ugly, foul-smelling, loudmouthed troll appeared from the depths of the bridge each time he heard trip-trip-tripping from above.  He bellowed, "Who's tripping over my bridge?" then threatened to eat each member of the goat family, who were innocently headed to the other side to eat grass. Being the ill-mannered fellow that he was, the troll never thought to invite The Gruffs below for a neighborly cup of tea, so readers can only imagine what his under-the-bridge home was like.  I picture swampy, cramped, littered with bones, infested with flies, and dark. . except for a flatscreen TV hanging on the wall above his unmade bed.

So, when I decided to change my morning exercise route from across to under the Brooklyn Bridge,  I did so with a healthy dose of caution.  What if even world-renowned bridges had their own trolls lurking in similarly inhospitable habitats?  Curiosity propelled me forward. . . and downward.

Gargantuan stone bases greeted me, rising from East River bedrock, effortlessly supporting tons of traffic and pedestrians on their shoulders.

The rising sun revealed a world of thriving activity along an inviting pathway stretching from the foot of the Brooklyn to the Manhattan Bridges and beyond in both directions.

People moved singly, in pairs, in groups, soaking in the morning's energy.





  

A fisherman waited patiently for his breakfast, or lunch, depending on his fortune.

Sea gulls gathered, perching as peacefully as doves, deep in meditation.

I come back morning after morning to find a community welcoming the day with a gentleness and a tranquility that nurtures me as I pass by.

Perhaps that's why the troll so rudely tried to eliminate the foot traffic over his bridge.  Why take a chance that those goats would discover the secret beauty underneath.  Any Brooklyn Bridge trolls with similar aspirations are long gone, their secrets discovered and enjoyed by many, including myself.

Please, come join us, and get there early!  

Flying Back to New York

I keep a gratitude journal. Each night before turning off the light on my side of the bed, I write down 5 things for which I'm grateful.  Since reading this idea in Sarah Ban Breathnach's book, Simple Abundance - A Daybook of Comfort and Joy about 10 years ago, I've filled journal after journal with the good in my life.  It's a healthy habit which helps keep me focused on the positive, but lately I've wondered if I truly appreciate what I'm listing. When I write, "All our children, their spouses, and grandchildren are healthy and safe," I feel that I should throw a party, jump up and down, open the windows and shout it to the neighbors.  Instead I enter the words, close the journal, and go to sleep.

I needed Gratitude to grab me, shake me, and shout, "Don't you realize how amazing this is?"

She complied on January 1st, onboard American Airlines flight 350 from Chicago O'Hare to LaGuardia, although not in any way I had in mind.

All was going smoothly - connecting flight from Little Rock was on time, flight to NYC was on time, weather was fine.  We took off; I closed my eyes.  Then, about 15 seconds later, loud pops exploded from the right side of the plane.  Bumps, like turbulence, but heavier, jolted us.  I grabbed a fistful of Drew's khaki pants in my left hand, and said in a deceptively calm voice, "This can't be good."  He was quiet, listening. .  for the sound of an engine.  "I hear the left one," he said.  More bumps.

For five minutes, we sat. No word from the pilot.  The plane seemed to glide in slow motion.  I noticed a white mist, a cloud? smoke? passing by my window.  "Why aren't we turning around?" "Is one engine enough to fly, to get us down?" With each question, my grasp on Drew's pants grew tighter, my mind raced with imagined endings.  And yet, the reality of a crash was impossible to entertain.  We had family to love, friends to spend time with, sunrises to savor.

We waited.  The other passengers waited, all quiet, as if sustained concentration could guide the plane to safely.

"Ladies and gentlemen.  The compressor on the right engine blew.  Everything is under control. We will be landing in 5 minutes.  Flight attendants prepare the cabin for landing."

Not until the wheels touched down, did I release my hold on Drew's forever wrinkled pants.  The revolving lights of ambulances, firetrucks and other emergency vehicles flooded my window, a precaution, thankfully unneeded.

I shouldered my bag and noticed that my whole body was shaking.
"Yes, I do realize how amazing this is!" I thought, "as is every thankful word on the pages of my journal."
But that night, I got out my most colorful markers and threw a party on the page headed, January 1, 2012.

                    

    

 

   


    

Peace

New York City seems more than miles away from our home in Arkansas.

As I sit on the front porch surrounded by oak trees and silence, I could easily forget that civilization exists beyond our five rural acres. The solitude lends itself to reflection, particularly with Christmas only  days away.

I turn to selected lines from one of my favorite poems, "Dawn Psalm,"*  by Thomas Merton.

When no one listens

To the quiet trees

When no one notices

The sun in the pool

Where no one feels

The first drop of rain

Or sees the last star

Or hails the first morning

Of a giant world

Where peace begins

And rages end:

One bird sits still

Watching the work of God:

One turning leaf,

Two falling blossoms,

Ten circles upon the pond.

One cloud upon the hillside,

Two shadows in the valley

And the light strikes home.

*(Book of Hours by Thomas Merton, pages 93-94.)

Cardinal on our window ledge 

Peace.

In the silence of Nature, we will find it.

May we take time this holiday season -- to listen.

Happy Holidays!
I will resume my blog from NYC the first week of January.

Twylla

  

    

Santas Here, Santas There, Santas, Santas Everywhere!

I noticed one Santa,

That's it, only one,

On the corner at Starbucks

Soaking up sun.

Three more then joined him

coffee in hand.

Where had they come from,

but Northern Pole land?

Hundreds came streaming,

(or at least ninety-nine),

like ants down the sidewalk,

in sort of a line.

But it wasn't just Santas,

white hair on their chins.

Along came a dreidel

ready for spins.

The mystery was growing.

I joined in the flow.

I had to, just had to

be one in the know.

I followed a couple,

dressed to the nines

as Mr. and Ms. Santa

in snazzy designs.

The Seaport at South Street

came into view

awash in red costumes

and hullabaloo.

Twittering and texting

from hither and yon,

they joined as one body

called. . . SantaCon.

Then a small, furry Santa, 

the cutest in sight,

barked "Merry Christmas

  to all and to all a good night."

 

Serendipity

One of my favorite words. . . serendipity.  Dictionaries divulge its meaning as a "happy accident or pleasant surprise; specifically, the accident of finding something good or useful without looking for it."(Wikipedia)
It sounds like a word we should dance to, under a moonlit sky, with glistening fairy dust falling on our heads.  There's something magical about it.  Nothing we can foresee, control, plan for.  It simply happens, and it's always good.

Serendipity visited me this week.  It was "yoga night," and I was late.  I hurried down Broadway towards Trinity Church in lower Manhattan, where my class had already started.  I was going against the flow of workers headed in the opposite direction towards waiting commuter buses and already crowded subway stations.  I felt jostled like a silver-haired ball making its way towards the merciful hole at the end of a pinball game.  I allowed frustration to mount and stress seethe as I elbowed my way towards 50 (now more like 30) minutes of mindfulness.

Arriving amidst huffs and puffs which would have put the Big Bad Wolf to shame, I was greeted at the door by a fellow "yoga-ite."
"The teacher hasn't shown up yet, and I'm the only one here," she said.
Reminding myself to breathe calming rather than rant uncontrollably, I said "thanks" and left.

My yoga mat and I retraced our steps, more slowly this time, allowing the wave of walkers to push us down the sidewalk.  For some reason, just as I passed the glass-encased lobby of One Liberty Plaza, I glanced to my left.  The backs of about a dozen men dressed in business suits faced me.  Positioned in a semicircle around a conductor, they stood, holding music folders, obviously singing.  A smattering of listeners were gathered around, and for some reason, I suddenly decided to join them.  Unlike me, I didn't stop to wonder "Do I need an invitation?"  "Will I be intruding?"  "Am I properly dressed for the occasion?"  I simply went in.

A chorus of "Hark the Herald Angles Sing" welcomed me at the revolving door and invited me to stay.  I have rarely heard such a perfect blending of voices.  From one carol to the next, I was amazed by how a group larger than four could achieve the tight harmony and lyric flow of a barbershop quartet.  As the tenors broke away from the rest with their incredibly high, clear notes, I felt truly joyous.

With the final strains of "Auld Lange Syne" ringing grandly in the air, I turned to a woman standing beside me and asked, "What is this group?"
"Voices of Gotham," she whispered.  "You can google them."

I snapped a picture before the group dispersed, then resumed my walk home.  My feet which had been so intent upon rushing earlier in the evening, felt strangely like dancing.  Was that a full moon keeping company with the skyscrapers?  Tilting my head back for a clearer look, shiny particles resembling silver glitter fell onto the front of my jacket.



(For a sample of their music, you can hear Voices of Gotham singing "I'll Be Home for Christmas" on a YouTube segment filmed in 2010, at this link:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-q63VKn_h4&feature=related)

      

        

  

Walking Tours in NYC - Learning from the Ground Level

'Victorian Christmas: Origins of Christmas Traditions -- A look at the literary roots of the holiday with stops at sites associated with O. Henry ("The Gift of the Magi"), Clement Clarke Moore ("A Visit From St. Nicholas") and Washington Irving's character of St. Nicholas in his "Knickerbocker's History of New York."  At 2 p.m. Sunday, led by NYC Discovery Walking Tours.'

The Weekend section of the "New York Times" was full of goings-on in the city, from Christmas tree lightings to storefront extravaganzas; but for a writer, what could be more appealing than following in the footsteps (literally) of other authors?  What could I learn by walking in their neighborhoods over a hundred years later?  I was intrigued.  With directions in hand to the corner of 21st and Lexington (across from Gramercy Park), I set off to meet the guide, in a part of NYC I had yet to discover.

Brownstones surrounding the park date to Victorian years (1837-1901), and with twinkling lights peeking through windows, I imagined picture-perfect holiday scenes immortalized on the covers of Christmas cards.

Norman Rockwell, "Santa at His Desk"
Saturday Evening Post

Of course, as with any imagined scene, all was not coziness and hot chocolate. Christmas traditions evolved in the United States, our guide explained, as immigrant cultures converged (often clashed) and sorted out customs -- keeping some, discarding others and "melting" many into what today is often referred to as "American Christmas."

Two of the authors highlighted on our tour contributed to the evolution of the dimpled-cheek, pipe-smoking, overworked - but ever-jolly - St. Nicholas.

Using the pseudonym, Diedrich Knickerbocker, Washington Irving penned his first book, a satire, in 1809 about the Dutch founding of NYC, with an appropriate tongue-in-cheek title -- A History of New York from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty.  He included a description of the Dutch St. Nicholas.  Sound familiar?

"And the sage Oloffe dreamed a dream,–and lo, the good St. Nicholas came riding over the tops of the trees, in that self-same wagon wherein he brings his yearly presents to the children. . . And when St. Nicholas had smoked his pipe, he twisted it in his hatband, and laying his finger beside his nose, gave the astonished Van Kortlandt a very significant look; then, mounting his wagon, he returned over the treetops and disappeared." (Irving, Washington.Knickerbocker’s History of New York, New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1928, p. 50)

Irving's youthful face faces the street named in his honor at 47 Irving Place (or 122 E. 17th), although myth is stronger than fact that he ever actually lived here.

Clement Clarke Moore, living a few blocks away in Chelsea, was clearly influenced by Irving's words (almost exact words - "laying his finger beside his nose") when he wrote "A Visit From St. Nicholas," in 1823, later re-named "Twas the Night Before Christmas."  His poem adds to and solidifies the character we know as Santa Claus, his eight reindeer, pack of toys and curious top-down manner of entering houses.
A sketch by Moore's daughter, Mary C. Ogden, in 1855, depicts the Moore's mansion on their Chelsea estate, now occupied by townhouses at 8th Ave. and 23rd.  Notice the numerous chimneys.  How ever did Santa choose?

       
The final author on the tour had nothing to do with Santa Claus and the evolution of Christmas into a commercialized frenzy.  Just the opposite.

Similar to today's writers setting up shop in a Starbucks,   

O. Henry ("according to local legend") occupied a booth in Pete's Tavern*, and wrote "The Gift of the Magi" in 1906.

*(at 129 E. 18th - between 3rd Ave. and Irving Place)

     












"The more expensive, the better, was the message of Christmas-giving during the Industrial Revolution," said our guide.  O. Henry's story of a young couple who sell their prized possessions to buy each other beyond-their-means gifts, not only twists the ending, but tests the conventional thinking of the day.

One of my favorite stories, it's worthy of yearly reflection, perhaps this year in O. Henry's booth, before penning my letter to that "right jolly old elf." (Moore)
Now, where did that tradition get started? Sounds like a writer's idea to me.



   
      

New York Cares!

Volunteering has never been so easy!  If you move to New York City today, you can start volunteering before the week is out.  No hassles, no frustrations, no red tape.  While you're still trying to figure out how to get furniture delivered and internet service activated, you can glide through the process to become a New York Cares Volunteer.  Connect to your new (or hometown) community of 8 million, in ways you could never discover on your own.

Thanks to Shannon, a friend who lives in NYC, I learned about this amazing network of volunteer opportunities.  "You can pick from hundreds of choices, one-time jobs or longer-term, many lasting only an hour or two.  They make it really flexible for people," she explained.  That's what I needed, a system, a paved path to involvement.  I signed up and have already volunteered once.  Here's how. . . in 3 user-friendly steps:

1. Go to the New York Cares website. Click on "Become a Volunteer, Sign up for orientation today!" and follow the directions.

2. Attend a 45-minute orientation; various times and locations are available throughout the city.

3. Search Projects on the website, select one, and GO!

What to choose?

• Help children with homework
•  Plant trees
• Assist adult immigrants preparing for the U.S. Citizenship exam
• Dance with 1st and 2nd graders 
• Distribute clothing to homeless individuals
• Create pieces of jewelry with blind and low-vision adults

. . . or hundreds of other options every week

I couldn't resist the listing at the Yorkville Branch of the New York City Public Library as my first volunteer experience. 

Yorkville Branch
222 East 79th St.

  "Volunteers will sort and shelve books, prepare reserve items, weed out old circulations and other general library assistance."

From 1:00-5:00 on a Friday afternoon, I joined 4 other book-loving volunteers as we shelved cart after cart of returned books.  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I enjoyed the company of some of my favorite picture books as I guided them back to their spots, alphabetically by author.  I couldn't resist leaning up against a bookcase and sneaking in a quick read of The Five Chinese Brothers, Mama Do You Love Me? and Oh, the Places You'll Go.  

The two librarians, who were swamped with helping a steady stream of adults downstairs and children upstairs, shook our hands repeatedly as we left, grateful for the extra help. "Will you be coming back next week?" one asked, more as a plea than a question.

As you read this posting from as close as Connecticut or far away as Russia, I'm sure you've already concluded that you don't have to live in New York City to volunteer in your own neighborhood.  Every community has its unique needs, its own system for lending a hand.

The New York Cares website highlights a quote by Margaret Mead which inspires me to continue this important work:

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has." 

I hope you'll join me, especially during this holiday season when needs are multiplied. . . wherever your community may be.