This past Saturday, in Midtown East, my guy and I were bickering. Actually it was a fight. I tend to get feisty, but he’s usually pretty even keel with it. Not this time. It was a fight. Our first.
I retreated to another area of his midtown apartment. Ugh, I hate midtown. My thoughts confirmed and justified my irritability. The subject was another, but being in Midtown East did not help.
“I leave for India in two days. This is silly, I don’t want to fight.” I offered.
“Me neither babe.” He cooled.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
We tempered on separate ends of the apartment. I applied super glossy lip-gloss and 5-inch wedges: My feminine truce.
A cool, first crisp of fall already teased the air as we walked into the early evening, on a late summer’s Manhattan eve.
Silence pervaded over a couple blocks, until we came across a gaggle of people, halted, looking across Second Avenue. A 2nd story Tui-na massage parlor was in flames, fire stretching over, up, across the expanse of building, smoke billowing into the night air. The inferno blazed for all to see– the parlor’s 20×11′ picture window was a perfect screen on which to project its internal activities.
Chinese women were throwing laughingly small portions of water from bowls against the fire, only fanning the flames.
Standing across the avenue with me, my guy said: “This is ridiculous, they’re not doing anything. Those women need to get out of there.”
On the street dozens of people were looking up. “Is anyone calling 911?!” Several nodded, and waved, their ears glued to their cell phones in quiet urgency.
Both my guy and I were stalled on the opposite side by oncoming traffic. As soon as the light changed, we darted across the street.
Locking eyes, I offered: “I’m going to find a fire extinguisher!” He nodded, I bolted right, and he ran up the stairs into the blaze.
I tried: 1, 2, 3, 4: delis, restaurants, a Subway sandwich shop: none had a fire extinguisher. Seriously? How wack is that? All the customers, managers, employees were standing on the curb in front of their establishments, eyes glued to the fire.
On the other side of the block, a Duane Reade pharmacy came into view. A corporate entity. They MUST have a fire extinguisher. I ran toward the two employees I saw standing on the curb, idle in blue DR polo shirts and nametags.
Breathlessly, I asked one for a fire extinguisher. He told me yes. GO GET IT. My demand had gravitas, but no panic. When he came out again with two, I grabbed one from him and he followed me back down to the center of the block. I was agile, even running in 5-inch wedges. Later, I privately congratulate myself for this.
The moment we arrived back at the fire, my guy had come down the stairs, his face sooty, his body reeking of smoke. A few Chinese women were hunched over and coughing, spitting up black.
My wedges bolted me towards him, and I handed off the extinguisher as deftly as though it were a practiced Olympic baton exchange. He ran back up the stairs into the inferno, the Duane Reade guy carrying the second extinguisher, following him.
We all waited with bated breath on the curb, looking up. It took a minute. A long minute. He’s probably figuring out how to use the extinguisher—who the hell knows how to use one of those things?
Then: finally: I saw my guy step toward the window, his large frame in view, and the white whoosh of the extinguisher, cascading over the frames, ceiling, floor, pane. The fire was out. Smoke still billowed from the window where the flames had burst through the glass, unable to be contained any longer. The sound of sirens could be heard a few blocks away, drawing closer to the scene.
Three firetrucks arrived and firefighters came out to asses the situation, just as my guy came down the stairs. I could tell adrenaline was racing through him; he seemed calm but spent. He walked toward me, the scent of smoke on him overpowering, and as the first firefighters went up into the 2nd floor carnage, he grabbed my hand gently and said:
“C’mon. Let’s get a drink.”
Our fight of half an hour ago seemed so small, so trivial in perspective. I was being petulant about how different we are. The next day he told me:
“You know what babe? You think we’re so different, but we’re not. There were a hundred people standing there watching that fire and no one did anything. You took action without even thinking. It was natural for you. You did what you needed to do to get it done.”
I offer this story not to tout my awesomeness, because believe me, I’m not so great. (My guy? Well, he is great. I’m always telling him how much better he is than me, and I most sincerely mean it. Sometimes I’m even judgmental of that—the mind is really a bitch.)
I am selfish and petty and judgy on a daily basis. It’s constant. But five years ago? I wouldn’t have taken more than a pause to watch the fire before walking down the street. Ten years ago? Even if I had paused, part of my mind would have been wondering how long I needed to stay there before I could get to whatever I was supposed to be doing next in the evening, and I wouldn’t have been even able to recognize that.
“What is to give light must endure burning” -Viktor Frankl
I finish this post off from India.
Today I am traveling to where my teachers reside, and tomorrow I will immerse into 28 days of silence and deepening. In what is (really, truly) a magnificent time of spiritual awakening and miracles transpiring, in all the brouhaha of ascension and a new world and sparkly deliciousness of joy and enthusiasm, to me, that’s all great, but this is the juice. When the world is aflame, actions take place supporting something bigger than ourselves. We don’t choose it, we don’t wish it, dream it, manifest it, affirm it, cultivate or coax it: when the world is on fire, there is no time for all that.
Who you are is just an automatic response.
And I will tell you, quite simply, I can’t wait for the rest of my small self to burn away so that I always live from this place. So that we always do. Cause you’re coming with me darlin’. We’re already here. Sizzle on.
