February 2012

“You’re leaving me already?” the conductor asked, with pleading in his voice. “You just got on! Just get in the train and take a ride with me!” My quick, carefree laughter cut through the cold air as I assured him we’d be reunited soon enough.

I barely had time to step in one door at Rockwell, smooth my bangs and adjust the zipper on my coat before stepping out on the other side of the Brown Line car and into the familiarity of my neighborhood at Western.

My legs are so sore from yesterday’s workout that the thought of walking back to my place was unbearable, even though it’s less than a quarter-mile away.

In that short distance between stops, the El tracks rise up from between unlucky houses in Ravenswood Manor, cut diagonally through the quiet alleys and suddenly tower over Western Avenue, welcoming visitors to the only neighborhood I’ve ever felt truly at home. I spent a whole afternoon between those two stops one spring with my camera, capturing frame after frame of alley refuse, shoes dangling from a power line, wall murals and shop signs. The pictures don’t mean anything — to anyone but me, anyway.

I didn’t change for dinner after spending hours at Starbucks worrying about the week’s deadlines. I made it as far as writing a list of things to do; but I’ll wait until tomorrow to do them.

I wore the same skinny jeans I wear almost every day — still the only pair that really fits me, despite my recent crazed fitness kick — with a pair of new-to-me, hand-me-down flats from Target and an old turtleneck sweater with stretched-out ribbing at the sleeves. My winter hat has ears like a cat, button eyes and a little pink nose and whiskers stitched on. (I forget sometimes that I’m wearing a hat designed for a 6-year-old, until I catch people looking quizzically at me, not making eye contact.) My scarf, a Christmas gift from my mother, was handmade in Kansas City from six-inch lengths of old sweater sleeves. I can make a fist and thread my arm through up to my elbow.

I absentmindedly made a serpentine sock puppet with the scarf during dinner, between bites of my blackened chicken sandwich with wilted spinach and citrus mayo, and a side order of cheddar fries. I ordered what I wanted without counting calories because a week after my breakup, the night before Valentine’s Day, I can still pretend to be wallowing and eating my feelings — and I know I’ll return to dietary austerity as soon as that excuse stops being valid. That will probably be tomorrow, too.

As we slurped the last sips of soda from our glasses, the bartender set down a warm, rich brownie à la mode for dessert. “On the house,” he said.

The pie hole: There’s always room. We ate until we were stuffed, left vanilla ice cream melting into a puddle on the dish to drown the leftover brownie crumbs.

I’d just missed a train when we left the restaurant, so I stood just inside the station with a book and lost myself in the silent world the words somehow create. The inbound and outbound trains arrived at the exact same time, a chance meeting I always make a little too much of.

There were maybe five people in that first car headed to the Loop; I was the only one who disembarked at Western. Sometimes it feels desolate, but tonight I relished having the platform all to myself.

The dangling flaps of the conductor’s hunting-style hat waved goodbye to my cat ears as I twirled through the turnstile and headed down the stairs. “You take care, now,” he said, his voice fading as the train rumbled out of the station. Traffic rushed on Western Avenue below the station, but the platform was so, so quiet.

I saw the first flakes of snow we’d been promised, cast in a melony glow, just after I boarded the train. In the alley between the station and my apartment, I raised my face to the sky waiting for a soft, cold kiss.

It’s still hours before Valentine’s Day begins, and I’ve moved so far past the defiance and hurt I felt a year ago. The song remains the same: Half my bed will be cold and empty, sheets crisp, when I wake up in the morning. But I know I’m not alone and may never be again; on the contrary, I’m in love with the whole world…and it loves me right back.

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It was a lot like a flying dream, but without the body-shaking, sickening thud after hitting the ground, just before waking up.
I don’t remember what I was writing, where I was, whether what I’d written was any good…just that I felt free.

Free is a feeling I’m not so used to anymore. Even the freedom of working for myself, the one I was so craving when I lost my job last summer, has felt like a series of crippling limitations lately. I’ve actually had a hankering for structure lately, for the pushpin confines of a cubicle, a prison of direct deposit and company-sanctioned benefits. Granted, it was a luxury to spend an entire day at home yesterday, celebrating Emaline’s one-year anniversary at Eastwood Eden, but maybe la vie bohème is not for me on the whole.

Though I’d like to think I’m making the most of it.

For one: I feel healthy.
I’ve been struggling to get there. I have not been alone.

A man named Eric, who I chatted with briefly weeks ago after he mistook me for a yoga teacher, sent me this.

For the past three months, I’ve been working with Lisa Browdy, a dear friend and newly minted health coach, toward balance in my life. Food has been my big focus, but she takes this wonderfully holistic approach to everything. Spirituality, relationship, career, physical activity, nourishment…they all have equally important roles in fostering happiness and health. We meet every other week for an hour, and it’s something I always look forward to. She’s soft spoken and easygoing, practices yoga and writes a column for the newspaper in Oak Park. She threw a latke party over Hanukkah. She sends me recipes and constant motivation. Some of what she teaches is silly; some of the silly stuff works.

I am changed.

Shortly after the new year began, I got together with my favorite Lincoln Square Athletic Club Spinning instructor, Brady, to set fitness goals for myself.
Fitness goals.
I’ve never had those.

Goals to lose inches, to get fitter, to be stronger. Each of my three goals has a corresponding reward; the first is a manicure/pedicure, which I won’t have had since before Christmas.

I’m going to three or four classes at the gym every week, getting up before the rest of the world wakes to pedal in a dark room for an hour or greet the sunrise with surya namaskar. I’m training to ride 200 miles over two days in July. I’m eating less, for the most part, but when I laid waste to a cupcake from the Sweet Ride food truck this afternoon — parked completely non-accidentally just outside the gym — I felt not an ounce of guilt.

I feel myself slimming, strengthening. My focus is sharpening.
It’s almost miraculous. But I know it’s not. It’s just me, with a purpose I’ve never experienced.

I’d never have had time to commit to these things if I’d been worried about waking up, showering, picking an outfit, fighting the Chicago Transit Authority and making it to my desk on time.
No, never have made time.
It’s pretty easy not to make room. I’ve been not making room for it for 28 years.

Balance is hard. Leaving room is hard. But not when it becomes habit. And I’m getting there.
Forgiveness is a big part of it.

A boy I used to date always joked that he never had to “leave room” for dessert, thanks to an area of his stomach called the “pie hole” reserved for nothing but sweets. It’s a notion I firmly believe in to this day.

I also like to imagine there’s an area in my mind where I store the creative energy I use just for this kind of writing — the flying kind of writing.

There are a lot of things screaming for my attention and energy.

After a couple of months struggling to fill my days, I’m close to wishing there were a few more hours beyond the 24 to accomplish everything. I’m starting to feel busy with work; my clients seem to be making their way out of winter hibernation, and I’m needed again. The gym takes time.
Apparently, I also have a boyfriend and once enjoyed some semblance of a social life.
There’s a lot going on down here on land.

But when I’m on the ground, I don’t give myself a chance to notice that when I’m sitting at my favorite table at Starbucks, I’m at eye level with the children who walk in, fresh from a long day at school or from their guitar and dance lessons — the perfect height to smile and invite my own innocence back for just a few seconds.

I’m too wrapped up in the concrete to lose myself in the moment, even if it’s only to imagine the thoughts of someone at the next table, to exchange brief eye contact or send kindness across the café.

When I’m caught up in matters of politics and work and how to pay my next bill, and the little things that get me down, it’s easy to forget how nice it feels to create something that’s just mine. Even if I’m not, you know, getting paid for it. (If I ever had the opportunity to combine the two, would I lose the joy? That’s a risk I’m willing to take…)

But I need to remember this flying feeling. The sky, where I write and fly, is where my heart lives.

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