Me in the Rachel Comey showroom.
I just got back from NYC with Tina of Stel's and Monkey & The Bug. I accompanied her on a buying trip for the womens wear department and got to sit in on some really amazing meetings. Aside from the work part I got to hang with her and her former intern and good friend, Will. I really enjoy their company and it was nice to be in "adult" settings. Grabbing a drink and lingering over good conversation, riffling through racks of beautiful clothing, and just taking in the city was more than lovely.
I adore the train ride. I love how you will be chug, chug, chugging along, tree after tree, practically scrapping the windows and then BOOM you are in a large field. The whole world just stretched out in front of you. Sometimes the ocean, sometimes green grass but the large expanse just stretches out and it feels like you have broken free. I love the morning light pouring through the windows and it's just me and my headphones, a small black notebook, and I can just write and write and write. No typing. The weight of a pen in my hands. I missed the cramp in my wrist and the indentations on my fingers.
Creativity is something you just can't force. I am, at heart, a writer. I am not always so great at this blogging thing. I can't just use writing prompts and force the words out. If I do than I am not writing what I really feel but what you need to hear and those posts quickly get deleted. My honesty is my freedom and these breaks from my head are where it all clears out and I can just write what comes. I chug, chug, chug along those trees and then BOOM a wide expanse. I love that.
Riding the train is like reading someones diary. You get to look into other peoples worlds. It is people watching only you move and they sit still. I saw an old man on peer, all alone, looking over the water. I saw man in his backyard chasing his cat, his children giggling, sitting criss cross on the concrete. He hovered over the ball of black and white fluff waiting to pounce. I saw a gray haired women in a denim jacket and her grandson on a beach waving at us. Piles of shovels and buckets at their sandy feet.
I waved back.
and I wrote and wrote and wrote. Most of which I cant even translate from the black notebook to big screen because my handwriting is illegible. But does it matter? It came then and it can stay there. In that moment, in the black notebook.
I left Hendrix for the three days. I was so busy that I didn't have a moment to miss him once I got there. The only time I ached for him was on the train. I could see myself on the grandmother's small beach, sitting on a piece of driftwood. I could feel the sun on my shoulders. I thought of Hendrix running around me, sand slipping through his fingers, his pants rolled up just above his ankles. I could see his hair being lifted by the breeze and feel his hand as it took mine to walk to the waters edge.
No matter where I go, I carry him with me.
I feel no guilt about leaving him. I want to make him proud. I need my career to progress and most importantly, I need to have something other than just motherhood. I am not ashamed to admit that it is important to me.
on the other side of it. I am in no way jealous of all those fabulous single women in New York that I saw. I sat in my hotel room in the morning. Just sitting. Music playing softly and I thought about how I had been longing for a quiet morning to myself.
But I am not a quiet morning person anymore.
I like my loud mornings. With my heart running around with bare feet, jumping on the couch, dumping toys out, and beating right there in front of me.
Can you hear it?