How does one accurately describe waking up to witness the sun rising over the Williamsburg Bridge, seen though floor-to-ceiling windows,while lying in a king-sized bed on the 17th floor?
Because seeing the sun rise is surprisingly not just about the colors, it’s more about the emotions of the visible, consistent and irrepressible advancement of the Earth. Even on it’s coldest, shortest and cloudiest days. There is something about the effortless perfection in the exact slow and steady motion, which turns every single dark night into an unmarked day that frustrates me when equipped only with words to describe it.
Yet it’s one of the only things I’ve been able to think of every time I sit down to write. The perversions of my own perceived standards of perfection have prevented me from even attempting to nail it down.
Written words remove my chance to take them back once they are out into the minds, and freewheeling interpretations, of the people who read them.
The impossible task of capturing the force that powers the stubborn and undeniable progression of a planet, and a person, into a new age, has kept me from writing anything. For a year. Because bearing witness to the inevitable meter-measured movement of every single thing goes so far beyond the word “lovely”, or “beautiful” or any other word overused to the point of meaninglessness, to describe something so ordinary and profound.
I need a word that captures the subtle glory in the grand simplicity of the profound juxtaposition of insignificance and omnipotence in witnessing the sun…rise. I need hand motions, facial expressions, eye contact and tone of voice. I need to take the awe that punches me in the back of the throat and fills my eyes with tears and wrap it around you till you have it too.
My move to a new state has relocated my frame of reference and I don’t always know where I am. Add that to a tendency to lose my keys in a city where doors are locked tightly, elevators are cramped, and stairways are small and every day holds the potential to turn into a place I have never been.
I’ve called NYC home for a year & a half and some change. Change is constant and impossible to count quickly enough so I’ve learned to survive by tipping generously. And by realizing that the sun rises and sets daily, no matter what the day brings.
At the beginning and end of each brand new day, I get to be home in the arms of the city of my current cohabitation. Falling asleep to the city’s twinkling lights that beat like the warm heart tucked into the chest where I lay my head every night, in a king-sized bed, on the 17th floor.
The best word I can use to describe this is the most overused, underrated word in the English language. Love.