Cures

To say that the past few days have been emotional would be positively an understatement. In fact, while I doubt I can adequately express a lot of the goings on of the weekend and through today, I will give it a shot, if nothing else, to chronicle and not forget. It began with Sunday. I walked in the Susan Komen Breast Cancer Foundation Race for the Cure which began on the west side of Central Park and wound through the southern part of the park, finishing, conveniently for me, as it were, on the east side. The feeling was indescribable, so I won't try. I just recall, and won't forget, witnessing so much cheerful love and energy converted from so much past sadness and so many losses, and being part of it. I only raised $250 on my own but next year I will strive to raise more, because being a part of something so vast and beautiful, so pure and meaningful, and contributing, was nothing short of amazing. Craig came along in the morning to shoot a couple of pictures, and then he left me with the camera and returned home. When I made it back to the apartment, he stood from his post on the couch, came to me, asked me so sweetly how it went, and I just began to cry. I couldn't help it: I walked with a co-worker, who is extremely genuine and nice, but I hardly know her, and couldn't imagine falling apart in front of her. And then I saw Craig's kind eyes, and realized how much people care for one another, and how much people forget how short our existences actually are. And what echoed through my head as Craig hugged me while I cried was the woman (women were invited to announce their terms of survival of breast cancer as we crossed the finish line) who shouted, right as my co-worker and I crossed, "My name is _____ and I'm from Jersey: 30 years!" Cheers of appreciation and congratulations filled the finish line like a huge wash of color. That will stay with me.*Then of course there was yesterday, standing out in the middle of the jobsite amid the site workers and office staff gazing at the American flag hung half mast over Shea Stadium, facing eastward, in the vague direction of Manhattan, at 8:46 in the morning which was the time of the first plane to tower. And again, standing with people I likely could trust but didn't feel quite near enough to, the tears stayed right inside my eyes - but it was difficult. I have no idea how many of those people lost people 9.11.01 in the tragedy that shook our Nation. Fathers, sons, mothers and daughters could have been lost to any of them - loves, spouses. I couldn't know but could only fathom the pain felt over at Ground Zero right then, and the amount of tears that could have amounted to a river flowing right through the heart of our country.*Then my mood shifted yesterday afternoon. I left work at 4.30, super speed-walked to the 7 train and rode it to the transfer to the F. Then I rode the F to 14th Street in Manhattan, emerged from underground too early to walk right into my class, so spent about 15 minutes in a Food Emporium where I wondered if I should buy myself a snack: was I hungry, or was my stomach just nervous? Nervous, I decided, abandoning the idea of buying soy nuts which I don't typically eat, or organic chips, also which would be unsual for me to eat, and I walked on to the building where I would begin my first New York City Fiction Writing course. I spent those 40 minutes before my class feeling so oddly wired. Once at school, I paced the building, admiring all of the artsy students milling around, my nerves flooded with pre-first class anxiety. But my first class went well, so well. The instructor is talented and obviously brilliant. My peers seem inspired and inspiring. We completed "author questionnaires," and wrote 2 entire 15-minute intervals of writing exercises. We learned about our instructor and her experience. We met each other, timidly. Perfect, as luck would have it, my classmates are all adults, in the least. Quite likely I'm at the top of the age spectrum, but it seems they're all at least somewhere in their 20's. And the class is mostly comprised of females: one male. He at least seems passionate about becoming a writer.*Anyway, I needed to sum up somehow the events of the past few days. I needed to at least voice just how lucky I am, as a woman wandering through this amazing experience, living all of these emotions to high degrees and wondering how I would ever be able to be this fortunate without my Craig here, without his love, and his endearing and absolute support, while we moved to this magical City where everything unbelievable that could happen, does. In all senses of the word.