bethofalltrades

When I got home to NYC, I had three magic things in my mailbox.

One was a wooden key the size of a serving tray.
One was a metal key the size of my pinky fingernail.

And one was something that will stay a secret between us, friend. But know that I got it and I opened it and I was very confused.

Then I realized what I was holding.

Then I wept.

Thank you.

Since I don't have your address, you'll have to share the piece of art I'm making for you with the world. I'll post it here. Watch this space.

Love,
Beth

I still imagine that someday we will find Don.

Tomato Nation does it to me every year. I think that it doesn't matter anymore, that seven years is a very long time, and then Sars writes about believing in angels (or not) and the tears can't be stopped.

I got into a deep discussion with Amanda about fate and the Universe. I believe that everything that happens is supposed to happen. I fight to believe it, even when things are going wrong. I believe it with no evidence.

That's faith. Believing when there's no reason to. I tried to explain to her that there are just things that I know in my heart. There's a reason that my hands can find the sore spots in a friend's body, and a reason that I call for no reason because I have a feeling that someone is sad, and a reason that I am here, now, doing what I do.

It wasn't a very compelling conversation, I fear. I am not the most articulate person in the world, and it is hard to articulate something that is only proved by "I feel it to be so."

I have met angels. The old Orthodox man who helped me up when I fell two years ago and told me that everything would be fine. He didn't mean my skinned knee. The punk girl on the bus who hugged me unbidden, without words, when I was crying.

I got to be an angel once, for a woman who fell down the stairs in the subway.

...

The only thing I want to say, I've said already.

(and it's a bit fucking tedious to say it again, no matter how true it is, no matter that it's the one unifying thought humanity has.)

Love,
Beth

Sars from Tomato Nation has this to say about crying on the street.

On April 20th, 2004, I was on a University of Pittsburgh North Oakland shuttle, crying my eyes out, trying to ignore the exuberant girl sitting next to me who was chattering to her friends.

She was small-- about the size of the 12 year old girl-- but full of energy, hands darting about, voice loud and far too low for her small size. Her hair was dyed Manic Panic red and she was a little bit punk, a little bit defiant.

As the bus neared my stop, she said "Well, it's probably sexual harrassment, but fuck it" and then she hugged me, hard.

Years later, I saw a stranger crying on the subway, so I sat down next to her and offered her my hand.

She took it.

There are people who are in our lives for bare seconds, yet leave impressions that do not fade.

To think of the reverse, that we might have similar impacts on those we meet, is almost too terrifying to comprehend.

Love,
Beth

So sometimes I wallow in self-pity and then the universe says, "Okay, feel better. Here's something."

Txt From: Dad
I'm sitting here in my office with your picture in front of me and just wanted to tell you "I love you."

Love,
Beth

I pulled the bright orange greeting card out of my purse at the diner last night, four drinks into what was an evening of immense relief. Found a pen in the depths of my cluttered purse and tried to write something to a kid I used to know on the occasion of his sixth birthday. The card was, of course, already late, even though I bought it with plenty of time to spare.

It is now back in my purse, still blank.

--

On the train, bitching loudly on the phone to my mother about how much I hate my job. The train starts to go underground and I say, "I love you, Momma." The fortyish woman across from me smiles. She's wearing a long fur coat and she says, "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation... I think we're a lot alike."

"You hate your job?"

"No. I call my mom every day."

And so we talked about mothers and how she lived away from hers for two years and hated it and since then they split their time between New York and Paris.

"My mother," she says, "Is the smartest person I know. Today I was telling her about-- well, you know, everyone has problems. And she said, 'Jeannie, you have to take it one step at a time towards happiness.'"

Again, curse the universe for sending me what I need to hear. "Your mother is very wise," I say, and Jeannie squeezes my hand and wishes me a lovely day as she dashes off the train at Canal. My day is instantly better.

--

I made it through my last workday without the Princess. I hadn't realize how much better she makes the office seem. Last week was really, really shitty, but next week is sure to be better, if only because she'll be stopping by my desk ten times a day.

My weekend is so infinitely boring. Today, grocery shopping and the hardware store (to buy supplies for mouse-proofing.) Tomorrow, laundry. This is probably all a good thing, though.

Love,
Beth