🗽Listening to the Magic of New York City

“Even then, the city was speaking to me; I just didn’t know how to respond yet. I didn’t even know the city had a language, its own form of nonverbal communication that let you know whether you were in the right place at the right time.”

—Jenna Wortham’s “City of Tongues” chapter in Sari Botton’s 2014 anthology, Never Can Say Goodbye: Writers on Their Unshakeable Love for New York

When my biggest licensing contract ended last summer, I lost more than the equivalent of a year’s salary. I lost what little remained of my confidence.

I struggled to hold onto my previously held optimism that I could make it through anything in my business, twelve years old at the time. My self-talk reverted to the first two deeply insecure years of self-employment, where every month felt touch-and-go.

Suddenly there were question marks everywhere my relentless optimism used to be, especially watching so many other companies crater and struggle. How will I stay in business and pay the mortgage? Can I stay in New York City? Is it even a good idea to try? Am I running a zombie business? And the old chestnut, Is the jig up?

Once again, I find myself asking for a signier sign.

I am as enchanted as I’ve ever been, even finally getting into Broadway after a decade of shamefully missing the boat (with big thanks to my friend Dorie, who has several exciting musicals in the works).¹ I joke that I’m hanging on by my pinkie fingernail, but I am still hanging on.

Please make it obvious New York, if you want me here or not!

Yesterday, the city responded.

During a morning sauna meditation at the spaffice, as my monkey mind scanned nervously across our outstanding bills, the inevitable recurring doubt-inflected inner voice piped up. Can I do this?

But this time, immediately afterward as I took stock of all the positive changes I’ve made in the last six weeks, I felt a new strength arise—one that no amount of spiritual platitudes would have delivered if I hadn’t been taking daily actions to prioritize my health. I recalled grunting through one of the hardest intervals of a recent rowing machine workout.

This new small voice said, “Why are you asking this as a question, can I do this? The answer is, I can do this. You’re not done yet. Give it everything you’ve got.”

When I went downstairs for a yoga class immediately afterward, the teacher welcomed us into the room with a curious song that had mantras scored to music. I snuck a quick Shazam and saved the song by Sophia Spallino (with over two million plays)—one I’d listen to on repeat for the rest of the day:

“I bless and release what does not bring me peace.”

As I stepped outside into the ninety-degree day, it was as if I entered a summer movie montage. This happens regularly if you’re lucky, and if you show up with open energy too. It was as if the city, charming in all its chaos, animated itself purely for my entertainment. Nothing out of the ordinary if you live here and are used to surfing this particular sea of humanity, but still utterly enchanting in all its small moments.

First, as I rummaged through my pocket to throw something away, a doorman ordering from a nearby food truck offered to buy me a coffee (I politely declined). Next, an automated Slack message pinged me: a new speaking inquiry just landed in our Pivot inbox.

Nearby, spices from a Moroccan food truck, Casbah, wafted across the sticky air.

As I rounded the corner, I walked by Kenny—a man with only one leg who sits on the same square of sidewalk every day wearing his black New York Jets Jersey, smiling widely and shouting encouragement to all who pass by. The tourists seem scared of him, rushing their kids along, but the locals know him well and happily reciprocate.

“Stay strong, baby girl!” he said, pointing at me and smiling. I smiled back, and he brought his fist to his heart. “Keep that solid gold inside!”

Once I got on the train toward midtown, my next destination, the subway announcer marked the stops as if we were at a champion boxing match. “Next stop is Pennnnn Staaaaation! Stand clear of the cloooosing doors please!”

In the same Never Can Say Goodbye anthology mentioned above, Phillip Lopate writes brilliantly about what I, too, love about the subway—and by proxy, the city:²

“My favorite place to be in New York is the subway. I love to sit down (if I can find a seat) and look around and see the human hand that has been dealt me.

. . . The subways, to my eyes, are a godsend: efficient, they get me where I want to go pretty quickly, they provide entertainment, sometimes via musicians who perform at station platforms, sometimes through singing panhandlers who traipse through the cars, and most important, they are a stay against solipsism, proof positive that I am not alone in the universe.”

After exiting, I stopped at my favorite Garmet District bookstore-cafe, Drama Book Shop.

Astute readers will spot the aforementioned burnt orange pants—fully clasped! 🙌

Tell me you don’t want to live here! Big leather seats in the back, too :)

Today’s special was a Cats-inspired mango-pineapple black iced tea. The extra of it all cracked me up:

After I said thank you to the barista with thick lemon-yellow glasses frames, he sang with a theatrical trill, “Youuuu’re welcooome!”

On my way out, I glanced up at the Career section, and spotted a gleaming gold book, ready to jump off the shelf. Cheesy, but why not?! I am in a movie starring myself today!

I flipped it open to a page that said, “Life is not a dress rehearsal,” giving readers a permission slip to “Go. Do the thing.” Next I checked the copyright page. It was published in 2017 by Running Press (now an imprint within Hachette), the same publisher as my first book, Life After College, that launched my business in 2011. I flipped to the acknowledgments: we even shared the same editor, Jennifer Kasius.

After leaving, I was almost hit by an e-bike while starting to cross the street—par for the pedestrian course these days. The man speed-walking in front of me had a memo on the back of his t-shirt that said, “Give me my flowers while I can still smell them.” While walking Ryder early that morning, I happened to make a note to myself to revisit TV executive Tara Schuster’s 2020 book, Buy Yourself the F*cking Lillies.

On the subway ride home, I spotted serendipity signage in two tattoos: one woman with cursive on her inner wrist that said, “be still.” Another holding a paper bag full of white, pink, and blue baby’s breath had cursive snaking down her calf:

“Strength is what we gain from the madness we survive.”³

When I got home, I realized I had done a very stupid thing: I forgot to check my calendar, and now I was due back near Columbus Circle in less than one hour for a coffee meet-up with a friend in publishing. I dropped my heavy bags and sprinted back toward the subway.

While waiting for the train (again) in the humid underground, beads of sweat were dripping so quickly from my face you would think I was in a spin class. But there was nothing I could do—I had no napkins on me, and wouldn’t dare ruin my white shirt.

I was typing observations from the day into my phone when all of a sudden, a woman to my right asks, “Would you like a wipie?”She extended her palm, holding a small orange packet of wipes, while she kept a lavender fan cooling her own face.

“Girl, you have no idea!” I said, telling her it was as if this wet wipe fell from the heavens themselves. We exchanged full-throated laughs of recognition. One woman helping out another, even if total strangers (how many would have kept the entire packet to themselves during a heat wave?!) She saved me from sure embarrassment at the meeting, since I would have otherwise arrived drenched, and the wipe instantly cooled me down and got me through the next five minutes until our car arrived. So what if I smelled like a baby’s bottom?

“My shero!” I called out to her as I left the train. She smiled. We made each other’s day, and I got to the coffee shop with fifteen minutes to spare.

The afternoon meeting was wonderful, and by the time I arrived back home again, I was overflowing with gratitude and glee. This city always speaks to me when I need it most, encouraging me, egging me on, and reminding me while I’m here (it doesn’t take much).

Earlier in the day, when I called Michael during a break to tell him about my inner shift from Can I do this? to I can do this, he reminded me of something I wrote for him on a napkin seven years ago, still held to our fridge with a magnet:

I am already doing this.⁴

❤️

1. If you’re a theater fan, you will love the book Dorie suggested I read: The Secret Life of the American Musical. I watch now with a new appreciation for the scaffolding behind each show, in addition to the incredibly artistry across performers, costumes, set design, etc.

2. Fellow nonfiction writers, you will love Phillip Lopate’s books on craft. My two favorites are The Art of the Personal Essay and To Show and To Tell.

I don’t have the heart to revisit Sari’s first anthology, Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving and Leaving New York.

3. With thanks to GoodReads, I discovered this line is from Mary Ann Weir in her book Home: Posy: Book Five (Five Fangs, #5).

4. If you enjoyed this post, you might also appreciate: