A story about crumbled walls and common ground.

The Core Stories | A story about heart and home.

“The world is a violent and mercurial — it will have its way with you. We are saved only by love — love for each other and the love that we pour into the art we feel compelled to share: being a parent; being a writer; being a painter; being a friend. We live in a perpetually burning building, and what we must save from it, all the time, is love.” – Tennessee Williams

…

The bedroom had two sunny windows that opened up to a red fire escape. Below stretched a busy sidewalk and a bustling street, like coursing veins between my building and the ones across the way: a deli, a garden store, more apartments. Diagonally down the block, a shiny silver diner’s neon sign blinked silently, its name pulsing in pink cursive.

I planned to position my bed in the corner, next to one window, where I could sit propped against pillows on weekend mornings to sip slices of sky with my coffee. My desk was going to go in front of the other window so I could daydream between scribbling sentences, looking down at the scrambled, scattered currents of anonymous strangers, coming and going while I sat rooted in my chair.

The landlord let me pick the paint color for the kitchen, which had two windows of its own. I chose baby blue. It matched the tiny tiles on the wall behind the sink. There was a deep, wide sill in the bathroom that I imagined propping with potted greenery — a few long-fingered ferns, maybe, with their little leaves lapping up the leftover shower steam.

From the outside, it was nothing special. The front door of the building was pimpled with graffiti, and not the artistic kind — just ugly, aimless scrawls. It sat above an uncharismatic Dunkin’ Donuts. But on the inside, it was perfect. It had the sunlight, the space, the simple abundances I needed. It was the place to replant myself, the way 20somethings must so often do as the seasons shift — as jobs and roommates and rent rates change — in order to continue to grow. It would be the permeable, permutable setting for the next chapter of my story.

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A story about successful amateurism.

The Core Stories | A story about successful amateurism.

In modern-day English, an “amateur” is someone inexperienced in a particular pursuit; a person who performs a hobby without professional skills. (You know this already, unless your vocabulary is, let’s say, amateur.)

It’s a word often used with a jeer. It’s not a label most of us wear with pride. We’d rather be professionals, specialists, gurus, experts — the words we scatter across our LinkedIn profiles, praying people will take us seriously and see us as successful.

But the word “amateur” dates back to 1784, with its roots in French and Latin. What it originally meant was “lover.” It was used to describe someone enthusiastic and passionate about a pastime, with no negative connotation and with expertise rendered irrelevant.

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A story about smiles and self-determination.

The Core Stories | A story about smiles and self-determination.

It’s ice cream truck season. Lately, that familiar twinkling tune — you know the one — trills almost nonstop through the streets of Brooklyn, doling out lickable, lopsided renditions of Spongebob and crumbly cones blanketed with chocolate and nuts.

I wonder whether the drivers despise that song they have to sit inside all day long; whether they tear through packages of Q-tips before bed at night, grimacing, trying desperately to wipe the cheery melody from their ears, to no avail. (It’s a sticky one, as addictively saccharine as the frozen treats.)

Or, maybe, they ride their vans like kings in chariots, proud to be beloved by every giddy kid given a dollar for a popsicle. Maybe that ditty is their anthem. Maybe they hum it, smiling, while they get dressed every morning, and whistle it while they wind up and down the same repeated roads. Maybe they feel lucky that their jobs make them drivers of joy.

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A story about legs and limits.

The Core Stories | A story about legs and limits.

One — huff — more — pant — lap — puff.

One — huff — more — pant — lap — puff.

It’s prime running season. It’s warm enough for bare arms and the faint beginnings of a sports bra tan, but cool enough for a brisk breeze whipped like egg whites around whisked ankles.

More than half of my writing begins while I’m running. It’s not intentional — it just happens. It’s like getting my feet off the ground lets my head float a little higher in the clouds, where the lofty ideas are easier to reach.

One — huff — more — pant — lap — puff. My shoes smack the sidewalk while my eyes scour the scenery while my brain starts making metaphors from every endorphin-surged sensation.

I usually head west from my Williamsburg apartment, then jut to the right when I hit the waterfront, weaving in and out of the coastal parks. Across the river, the Manhattan skyline bursts up like a magnificent geode, the shiny combs of buildings crowded together, glimmering, small enough to seem graspable. While I feel like I’m flying, that view reminds me of rooted gravity; while I feel infinite and invincible, it reminds me that I am so very tiny, and so very vincible.

I typically finish with a few loops around the track at Greenpoint’s McCarren Park. As I’m losing steam, I like surrounding myself with other panting people — fellow runners, racing circles around groups of kids playing soccer on the field in the center. Some jog slowly, chatting with friends, fanny-packs bouncing. Others stretch on the sidelines or do sweaty sets of sit-ups and push-ups. On the benches, elderly Brooklynites prop up their canes to rest their weary legs, tilting raisin faces towards the sun. There’s a persistent airy pop of tennis balls bouncing on the courts just a few feet away.

“One more lap,” I was reciting silently to myself on an evening earlier this week, as I prepared to quit. One — huff — more — pant — lap — puff. I slowed and turned my head towards the playground equipment, where I spotted a stranger doing pull-ups from the monkey bars.

His arms must have been thicker than my thighs, carved as stone, strong — sweat dripping, hands gripping. I would never have guessed, if I’d only seen him upward of his chiseled abs, that he was a double amputee. But he was — both of his legs ended at his knees. Next to him, a wheelchair waited while he pulsed resolutely up and down, showing no signs of stopping.

I sped up again.

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A story about treading lightly.

The Core Stories | A story about treading lightly.

On Wednesday night, I trekked from Brooklyn to a cathedral on the lower edge of Harlem to see a talk given by the first guest I’d invite to a fictional fantasy dinner party: Krista Tippett. (I’d be cooking some sort of vegan curried eggplant, probably, and serving it alongside generous glugs of red wine. Krista would sit at the head of the table — or perhaps we’d all be spread on a blanket on the floor of my Brooklyn apartment, or squeezed together on the slatted stairs of my fire escape, me and Krista and Elizabeth Gilbert and Andy Warhol and a few special others.)

When I say that I “trekked” there, I mean it. The trip took an hour and a half, and it was neither pretty nor pleasant. One of the subway lines wasn’t running properly. I waited for fifteen minutes while the crowd gradually poured in around me on the platform, and then we all squeezed tight like chickpeas in the crammed can of the car, overheated and grumpy and tired and hungry for dinner.

The subway always seems to break down at the most inopportune moments, but I was running late even before its snafu. As we jostled along on our way uptown, I tried not to panic, craning my head to see the clock as the time ticked closer and closer to the start of the event. I worried that the cathedral would shut its doors at 7pm when the show was scheduled to begin. That I would get all the way there and be locked out. That I’d miss my one sacred opportunity to witness one of my most admired role models in person.

And so I did what I’ve been training myself to do over the course of the last year or two: I tried to breathe slower. I paid attention to my chest rising and falling, rising and falling, pulsing quietly and consistently despite the chaos around me. I reminded myself that the universe is not out to get me and that this unfunny comedy of errors was not some secret ploy to ruin my day, but just a random coincidence, out of my control. What I could control was the way I reacted to the the stress — and so I did my best to carry myself through the mess as lightly as I could.

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