Well, today has been a little blue. And rather than retreat into the blueness of it, I thought it might be comforting to be here and write to you, whoever and wherever you are. I thought why not spend a few brief moments talking about something bright? Maybe it will brighten your day. And in any event, the exercise of sitting to put pen to paper—so to speak—often feels just as cathartic as a brisk morning run or a hot shower at night.
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It’s a brighter day than yesterday—my mood is sunnier, but not light. Sometimes I’m struck by this particular sensation: Of being calm and content but having a gentle, insistent feeling of so many little anxieties hovering at the edges of your mind. They whisper quietly now and again, and aren’t loud enough that you can’t hush them, but they’re there.
Other days those shadows aren’t there; you’re unfettered in your happiness. Or you’re mired in a crisis—work stress or a fight with your sister or nerves over an impending trip—and that’s all you feel.
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Yesterday was one of those golden spring days. You know, one of the first really warm ones? Where you don’t have to wear a jacket, and it seems like everyone in the entire world is outside? The city feels like a spring-themed I Spy book—everywhere I turn I see things I’d missed all winter: frisbees whizzing through the air in Washington Square Park, a Mister Softee truck rounding the corner ahead of me on Chambers Street, guys jogging in shorts and t-shirts down the West Side Highway.
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My first memory of envy is vivid; I can conjure up the feeling with a blazing ferocity. I’m in first grade, and it’s lunchtime (I know, I know! Capable of such intense emotions at such a tender young age, but what can I say, I peaked early).
Anyway, there I am, calmly unpacking my yellow canvas lunch bag. And what do we have? There is a little bag of baby carrots. A PB&J on homemade whole wheat sandwich bread. And of course, the pièce de résistance: a container of ripe whole strawberries with a teeny container of confectioners’ sugar for dipping. That was the height of decadence for our lunches: strawberries (with straight sugar, to be fair).
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We’re all good at different things. Sure, we have big, shiny, professional-grade skills, but I’m more interested in the little talents, quirks, and interests that make us us. My older sister can speak in a flat-out flawless British accent, knows how to curl her hair to look like a Pantene Pro-V ad, and has a textbook golf swing. My little sister is an exceptional cook who can whip up calzones one-handed (with a newborn baby on her hip), and has an excellent ability to stay unflaggingly cheerful under nearly any circumstance (airplane travel, the brutal 11th hour of a damp and rainy 12 hour hike up a steep, rocky Adirondack mountain, a run-of-the-mill bad day).
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