Every year, Santa does a practice run at the building across the street in Inwood the week before Christmas. He hasn’t been able to do so for the past few years because of The Illness, but last night I heard bells ringing and the unmistakable baritone “Ho, Ho, Ho” as he made his way. Our neighbors gathered at their windows to say hello as I looked on from our kitchen.
“It’s been a long time,” Santa bellowed from the sidewalk, waving at us all, and my heart “grew three sizes.”
It has indeed been a long time, and as I looked at the kids and adults across the way I felt transported to those oddly jubilant days at 7 pm in 2020 waving to each other as we sang and made noise as a show of gratitude for the “essential workers” who were trying to keep us safe. I remembered the sense of camaraderie, community, our attempt at mustering hope. I felt grateful for those glimmers of light at one of the darkest moments in my life.
Inwood was somewhat mocked for continuing this practice long after most had closed their windows and gone back to their Zooms. My neighbors Marco and Geoffrey would go up to our roof terrace and play Japanese instruments and a large Taiko drum. I would ring the bell Ben made for me. I’d wait to hear the shofar a neighbor further down the street blew out his window. Some days I’d cry. Some days I’d laugh. I also felt joy.
Rebecca Solnit wrote about this phenomena of joy as a conjoined result after tragedies, specifically looking at the aftermath of September 11th and Hurricane Katrina in her book, "A Paradise Built in Hell.”
“Horrible in itself, disaster is sometimes a door back into paradise, the paradise at least in which we are who we hope to be, do the work we desire, and are each our sister's and brother's keeper,” she writes. “Many events plant seeds, imperceptible at the time, that bear fruit long afterward.”
Many years ago when I was reporting for DNAinfo, a catastrophic fire took down several community businesses in Inwood. As I stood watching the flames engulf the northwest corner of 207th St. and Broadway I felt like a bad journalist for crying. I knew the people who had poured their lives and resources into these businesses, and I knew the sense of community that had grown from these efforts. I feared that it would be lost. That fear was ill conceived. The greater sense of unity and community that came from that incident is still felt throughout Inwood today, and much of that bond was cemented then. As a journalist, I felt it was my job to report on their feelings, not feel my own, and I was certainly not allowed to express those feelings publicly.
And yet, there is something about living through a shared trauma that gives us the opportunity to place a stake in the ground, to be vulnerable, to show who we truly are, and to make good on a commitment to be there for each other. That experience changed the trajectory of my reporting life. I decided I would find a way to be a journalist who centered heart and humanity more intentionally, whether reporting or helping others to do so.
I recently saw the owner of the pet store that went up in flames that night. He reopened in a new storefront shortly after the fire and we’ve remained friendly (best pet store and owner, frankly). On the street corner, we talked about my pets and his kids, our families, remarking on how fast time has moved on before settling into reminiscing about the fire. We agreed that, although nobody would ever choose to live through that experience, beauty and connection and new opportunities for growth came from the experience. I felt the warmth of kinship and even a sense of nostalgia.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it can offer a new way to see and be in the world. I found myself reflecting on this while leading a poetry workshop for uptown artists at the United Palace this month. As I selected poems for the attendees, I recognized how many of the works carried me through the past several years. They transformed me into the person I am today, nearly unrecognizable from who I was four years ago when I launched this newsletter while seated in front of that fireplace at Soho House.
After the event an attendee thanked me for the class, telling me it had been a “defibrillator” for his heart. Art has the power to do that, especially when shared in a collective. Leaning into my life as an artist has acted as a defibrillator for me as well.
“It goes on.” As we approach the holidays and the winter solstice, I find myself once again repeating these words as my brother and I each mourn two new losses, two friends who died within 24 hours of one another. They were friends who individually helped us grieve our brother when he died, friends who shone their light in our lives, friends who gave so much to their communities and were committed to the fullness of life.
My friend Benish, whom I met when we both shared stories about our immigrant childhoods (hers Pakistani, mine Argentine, yet both so familiar) at an event in Brooklyn, made her support available through impromptu messages, endless texts and phone calls that often started with checking in on me and ultimately made their way to laughter and fashion and beauty recommendations.
My brother’s friend Dorsha guided Lee through his own painful feelings, reminding him that the pain was a sign of love. Dorsha shared that his Mongolian family believed that upon our death our auras spread into the air and feed the people around us. He said this means we have a responsibility to tend to our auras so that they spread kindness, not hate.
(This shared beauty and wisdom and friendship of immigrants brought to you by the good old U.S. of A.)
When I first learned news of Benish, after attempting to console my brother about his personal loss the night before, I hesitated to call him, afraid of adding more grief to the already overwhelming sense of loss. But of course my mother told him and of course we spoke, and when we did, he said:
“Maybe we were just meant to go through this together; I’m OK with that.”
And that is the wisdom I take in this moment. Yes, we are meant to go through this together, even if sometimes it feels like it would be easier to go it alone. Yes, it is painful. And yes, it is evidence of love. And yes, I am more than OK with that. I want to practice that and learn to be in this collective journey together, because without it we will never get to create that stunning aura and spread it for everyone to breathe that fresh and beautiful air. I want to experience that kind of life. I want to experience that kind of love. I wish for you the same, in this life and in the beyond.
"I decided I would find a way to be a journalist who centered heart and humanity more intentionally, whether reporting or helping others to do so." So grateful you made that vitally important decision dear Carla.
Somehow you perfectly put into words how I feel in so many aspects of my life and work. Thank you for this gift, Carla.