lemons to fizzy limonata

Happy Thanksgiving! Play this meditation and talk here or click right to download. Wishing you peace in your…

Have you been feeling like everything has been coming up and going haywire the last couple of weeks?…

Now that I am back home safe in my apartment this afternoon with heat, light, unlimited internet and a phone that works, it seems unfair that my “Sandy” experience will draw to a close when I know so many others are still suffering.

Half a dozen of my closest male friends remained downtown.  Urban cowboys riding a snapshot of what a post apocalyptic world could look like.  They texted me stories of subsisting on pancakes or whisky, growing beards and going for days without showers.  They would trek to charge their cellphones at (marginally generous) NYU and hunker back down into their forts of darkness.  As a nod to the New York-y shortening of consolidating neighborhood names (Soho, Nolita, Noho,) they began to refer to themselves as SoPo residents.  As in: South of Power.  My neighbor told me, there was a pride in toughing it out.  This was their home, their people, their connection.  They could not abandon ship.

This day, 13 years ago, I was on a 5-minute subway ride when the first plane hit.

I exited 23rd street and there was a gaggle of 100 or so, staring straight down 6^th Avenue at the World Trade Center.

No one knew what was happening. It was a fluke.
A cause for curbside, neighborly discourse.

When a 2^nd object hit the 2^nd building, the worry escalated.