Notes to self

Processing, moving, and the art of attention

Hello from Boerum Hill, Brooklyn!

Along with our two roommates, Teo and I moved into a new apartment on Saturday, and although we still have a lot to do in terms of setting up the space, it’s a huge relief to be here. I haven’t had my own apartment since January 2023, and it didn’t bother me while I was away adventuring, but ever since I returned to the city, I’ve been itching to live among my things again. I find it so grounding to be with the items I’ve collected throughout my life — the orange dress I wore to my college graduation party, the purple velvet blanket my mom got me when I was three, my ever-growing collection of cookbooks, and so forth. I’ve been reunited with everything I stored in New York before leaving for Rome, and will be reunited with the rest of my belongings when I go home to Massachusetts this weekend. Hallelujah. 

The view from our building’s rooftop. That’s the World Trade Center in the distance!

I’ve had a rocky couple of weeks mental health-wise — a reflection of some anxiety in my personal life, the transitional state of my life right now, and the horrible horrible news. Over the past several years I’ve learned that home really is the foundation of my mental health, bolstering my ability to handle the hard outside world. I take sanctuary in the knowledge that I can always go home, shed my thick outer skin, and take care of myself (whether that means crying or sleeping or watching TV or something else entirely). I only fell in love with New York City when I started living in Brooklyn last year, and that’s in large part because my apartment finally felt like my home. It’s no small thing, feeling at home.

A pretty corner near our place, captured by Teo.

A common denominator of my favorite poets is that their work has much to do with their domestic lives. They take inspiration from and solace in home, just like I do. The late, great Jane Kenyon is among these poets. Her poem “Otherwise” is a favorite of mine. In it, she speaks of her daily life with pure appreciation: waking up with “two strong legs,” walking the dog, resting with her partner, eating dinner. Her closing remark is that she knows one day “it will be otherwise.” I’ve considered getting a tattoo of the word “otherwise” — a call to appreciate this moment. As I write to you, I’m listening to bubbling water and a sizzling pan; Teo’s making us dinner. I already feel better.

Ciao!

I wrote here that the practice of writing is the practice of paying attention, and that by writing and paying attention, I find my existence much more delightful than I normally would. A formal reminder to myself: when your head is stormy and the headlines are dark, write write write write write. 

Also, Phoebe: read. I’m currently inhaling Insomniac City by Bill Hayes, a wonderful writer-photographer-human whom I met at the American Academy in Rome and recently reconnected with in New York. It’s a strange and moving experience to read the memoir of a new friend, and to get to know them better with each page. Insomniac City is a love letter to Bill’s late partner Oliver Sacks, and also to New York — this treacherous treasure of a city we share. Bill is an expert at noticing and noting the beauty and tragedy that surrounds him, a discipline I’d very much like to join.

With love,

Phoebe