I remember the Sunday paper. I got it from the porch, rolled into a heavy log with a story inscribed in each ring, although I was far too young to be interested in them. Rather, I dug out the comics and we passed it around the family, chuckling to ourselves and waiting anxiously for each other to get to the punchlines we knew were coming so we could laugh together. It was a special little highlight of each week. For a time, our Sunday newspaper also featured a Magic Eye stereogram, and I marveled at how my dad seemed to possess the super-human ability to see the hidden 3D figure instantaneously every time. When all I saw were chaotic squiggles like static on a television screen, he saw animals, flowers, trees, hearts, faces floating in a sea of color. I was desperate to develop the skill, certain these Magic Eye prints in the paper held untold secrets to life. He taught me by holding the paper above me as I focused on the wall across the table, then lowering the paper in front of my face with gentle reminders not to let my focus shift. If we did it just right, something amazing reached out to me from the cluttered mess of meaningless shapes and lines. Maybe not the meaning of life, but something just as valuable to my 8-year-old self. Eventually, I learned how to see it for myself. I learned how to refocus my eyes farther than the page to see the image within. Indeed, that was the magic: You could only see it by looking through it.
While my dad taught me about optical illusions, my mom helped me constantly to refocus in life. As a student I was forever focusing on the minutiae and getting overwhelmed by a constant need to perfect the details, rarely stepping back to take it all in and contextualize the challenges that always seemed so insurmountable. My mom was of reminding me: "Be careful not to lose the forest through the trees." But unlike the Magic Eye in the Sunday paper, I never quite learned how to look beyond the problem to see the picture. All through grade school, college, and beyond, I regularly upset myself getting caught up in the little details that were always so important in the moment but rarely held any lasting significance. It should not have surprised anyone, then, that New York - the biggest forest I'd ever encountered with the most attention-grabbing trees - would be a challenge for me. Instead of seeing grandeur, a spectacular organism with so many moving parts living together, I tended to notice the worst, and I began to hate the whole. I muttered "I hate New York" as I pushed myself onto an overcrowded, overheated train. I sang "I hate New York" with whatever melody was on the radio when I circled the block for 45 minutes trying to find a spot during street cleaning. "I hate New York" thumped like a metronomic mantra through my veins when I felt myself taking too long to order in the morning rush of a busy bagel shop, never knowing just the right words to use in just the right combination. Indeed, so much of those first months was wasted on "I hate New York" moments. Like an addict, I knew I couldn't quit my pessimism cold turkey, so I borrowed another tool my mom had tried desperately to promote around the dinner table (with varying degrees of success) and tasked J with asking me every night: "What was the best New York moment of your day?" I told him - and myself - that it had to be something specific to New York. That excluded phone calls with a best friend back home, binge-watching an entire season of Breaking Bad, or successfully cooking a meal at home. I needed help reorienting my outlook on my new home, seeing it with more forgiving eyes, and working to notice the good. If I couldn't see the forest, the least I could do was focus on different trees. It wasn't always easy. Sometimes my answers were pithy, like "I saw grass today" or "There were no delays on my train." But over time, the positive moments became easier to recognize, and something coherent began to emerge from the salmagundi of the city. There was goodness, joy, beauty, opportunity, some of which I will miss a great deal when I leave. For example... Dollar Pizza, because even if New York style pizza isn't my favorite, there's something amazing about being able to wordlessly slap a single dollar bill on a Plexiglas counter and receive a generous, hot slice on a paper plate. No muss, no fuss, just a quick bite that always hits the spot. Watching New Yorkers give train directions. Although I would not typically classify most New Yorkers as being generous of their time or expertise to help strangers, nothing gets them out of their shell like asking for directions on the train. The moment someone on a train asks for the best way to reach their destination, five sullen New Yorkers will awaken for the opportunity to describe the best way to get from Point A to Point B, arguing their route like vendors hawking their wares in an Israeli shuk. It's adorable. Roasted nuts & popcorn trucks. Things that I had once associated only with country fairs and carnivals occasionally pop up unexpectedly along my routes, offering the opportunity for a treat on an otherwise normal day. Even though it can make maintaining a healthy lifestyle more challenging, the sheer smell of roasted, sugared almonds or Brooklyn Popcorn Company chocolate popcorn is worth it. Bodega cats, and 99-cent store cats, and hardware store cats, and the occasional grocery cat. In small, dusty neighborhood stores packed floor-to-ceiling with products, somehow having both everything and nothing you need at the same time, you might find a cat. There will be no sign on the door, no food dish or litter box in sight, but suddenly a cat curls itself around your leg when you're preoccupied looking for wall hooks or wrapping paper or a soap dish. It might follow you as you shop or suddenly develop an interest in the $5 rugs piled on the bottom shelf, but more often than not it will appreciate a gentle stroke on the neck or a vigorous scratch at the tail. You will leave with your purchases in a black plastic bag, cat hair clinging to your pants, and - if you're an animal person - the traces of a smile. The normalcy of icons like the Statue of Liberty, One World Trade, and the Empire State Building. Although I don't live or work near any of these globally-recognized structures so pervasive in film and television, all I have to do is turn my head while walking from the subway to work to see the tower of One World Trade glowing in the morning sun. Sometimes I'll run an errand in Manhattan and suddenly be caught off guard by just how close I am to the Empire State Building, towering over the nearby buildings from mere blocks away. From certain high-elevation points in Brooklyn I can stand in the middle of a quiet residential road and have a perfect view of the Statue of Liberty, that symbol of freedom and hope at once striking and unremarkable in its presence. I've never had any great love for iconic buildings and monument, yet I still can't help but think every time: this is pretty cool. There are more (or so my New York-loving friends tell me), but I am at the very least thankful that, like the Magic Eye stereograms of my youth, I'm finally seeing the beauty concealed within the chaos.
1 Comment
Ashur_Patrick
3/4/2018 02:36:41 pm
Another nice story. Thanks for bringing me back to the special days of the Magic Eye stereo-grams and for forcing me to learn a new word: salmagundi. Nice
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AuthorNashira is a music teacher and proud Small-Town Jew who, after surthriving six years in Brooklyn for her husband's surgical residency, is finally back in Wisconsin where she belongs! At least until the end of the two-year surgical fellowship, that is. It's a wild ride, and she's ready to tell you all about it! Archives
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