A SMALL OFFERING
November 6 2012
These days, between the hurricane and the election, one must take whatever small pleasures reveal themselves. And so it is that today my hurricane-delayed shipment of blank journals finally arrived, all 10 of them. Enough to last me through next year, should I be gifted the opportunity to live it. So now, having set 9 aside for shipment to France, I lovingly cover this one with the French linen I bought last year in Lourmarin and when the glue has dried I ink onto the linen with my trusty little fountain pen: “Flying The Coop, Book IX.
Like most writers I have what I used to think of as my superstitions, but which I now believe are actually intentions. That is to say, rather than believing the superstition that the way one starts a book could well dictate how it will turn out, it is more advisable to state one’s intention in the first paragraph. And so it is that I have chosen to start this book with pleasure, for no matter where we are there is always plenty of heartache and injustice to bear. But it is a question of balance: in this case of knowing the difference between pleasure and self-indulgence.
This past Sunday morning, Joel and I experienced a great deal of pleasure eating our customary Sunday breakfast of poached eggs, toast, marmalade and a good strong pot of PG Tips. From there we moved to the couches in front of the fire along with the NY Times and some classical music. But by 11 o’clock the pleasure had turned to deep discomfort. How could we enjoy ourselves like this when thousands of people in our not so fair city were devastated by the hurricane? I mean devastated. Homes, businesses, loved ones – gone. Cars, boilers, power – gone. The family album, baby’s crib, computers, furniture, trees – gone. People stuck on the 10th, 20th floor with no electricity, therefore no elevators, some of them in wheelchairs; no diapers, no medications.
I’d been looking online for days to find a way to help and could find no information. Finally my daughter, who had been without power for 5 days, texted me that she was taking supplies to the Bowery Hotel, down on the Lower East Side, and she provided a list of what was needed. So we left the couch and went shopping and loaded up with big bags of food, water, clothing, blankets, toiletries, flashlights and batteries, took the long taxi ride down to the Bowery.
It felt good to do something. But it didn’t feel like enough. And how dispiriting to ride back through Manhattan, to see the tourists and shoppers with their luxury items, carrying on like nothing had happened, when the truth is that for a week we’ve had our own Katrina here. All those outer edges of the boroughs that got washed away, Red Hook, Rockaway, Staten Island, they’re all working class areas. It’s true that wealthy people lost electricity and homes and cars, too, but they also have the means to rent hotel rooms or apartments or go to their second homes. But these other people, they’re literally in the dark. And the cold. Waiting for people like us who were fortunate enough to escape the Hurricane to get off our arses and do something.
Denial. How we all hate that word. It’s become such an eye-roller. Yet how we love its backdoor escape. We have a population here in which almost half of its citizens are in denial that one of today’s presidential candidates has been lying to them for months. And imagine the denial he’s in! And what do we gain from denial; a little more time off? From what; taking responsibility?
Look, I admit it, I had some denial going on last week. I’d go online a few times in an attempt to find out how to help and then after a few dead ends I’d tell myself, “Well, I tried.” But the truth is I only tried so much; I’d help if it were easy. Even on Sunday morning when I started feeling uncomfortable I tried to let myself of the hook. I didn’t really want to get off the couch. I wanted to keep feeling pleasure. I actually heard this thought go through my mind, “I’m in my 60’s, I’ve done my bit, I’m allowed.” Wow.
When we came home from dropping off the provisions I wrote to the board of directors of our building offering to head up a relief effort, what did they think about encouraging the tenants to donate, how could we organize trucks for delivery to affected areas. I was told a local synagogue was set up to receive and deliver goods, but the person told me he didn’t think he or management should direct people to a Synagogue. What? Is this part of the fear we’re living with here in America; fear of directing people to a synagogue to donate much needed relief? Would we be afraid to direct people to a church? Is it this fear of the other that allows half of this country to believe a candidate’s blatant lies rather than have a black president re-elected for another four years? And how do we live with this fear; through denial?
We’ve booked our flight to France, leaving on 29th December. We decided we wanted to start our year of living in Europe by waking up there on New Years Day. I’m trying not to wish the time away between now and then, but I tell you, I can hardly wait to live in a small village that has fresh-baked baguettes and local cheese. I long to walk the winter woods and lanes before moving on to the farm in Tuscany in late spring. I can’t take this city life anymore, can’t take the immense divide between the rich and the poor, blue states and red states, black and white, corporate driven media and a government made up of 2 opposing sides; a government where one side, for four years, has done nothing for its country in crisis, nothing. It’s only intention being from day one of Obama’s presidency to make sure he doesn’t get a second term. And they call themselves patriots?
I don’t know how it’s going to turn out today, but I did get enormous pleasure from voting for the first time in my adult life. I became a citizen two and half years ago, so I got to cast my vote for Obama this morning. And I got pleasure from posting information in the lobby of our building, telling people where and what they could donate for the hurricane victims. I didn’t mention it was a synagogue, just gave the address. Isn’t that all we should be caring about right now, where and how to be of help? Every day of our lives. Some small offering, so that we may rightfully experience the pleasure of sitting on a couch writing in a new journal, watching the brilliant red sunset of another day.