Bryant Park - in Pictures

 Bryant Park NYC is, for many reasons, a very special place to me. I've had happy moments there and some sad ones too. It's been my go-to place to chill out, cool off, blow steam, center myself, people-watch, cloud watch ( one of my secret pastimes) and just breathe and be. I walk through the park twice a day, so it is a touchstone as I enter and leave the city and I would say - an even deeper touchstone than that.

    

This past Friday as I entered the park, I was greeted by the stunning sight of the lawn filled with empty chairs facing downtown. I recognized it immediately for what it was - a September 11th Memorial. There was a little sign explaining the installation: 2753 chairs - one for each person who died in the terror attacks of September 11, 2001. 

On that terrible day...no, on the day which hosted that terrible event, I saw the smoke of the first impact from my elevated train platform. The platform was crowded and everyone was pointing and talking on their cellphones. Yet inexplicably, when the downtown train pulled into the station, almost everyone boarded and went into the mayhem, because almost no-one believed the horror that was at that moment just a rumor. I turned around and went home, figuring that if it was true, the subway would be snaked with paralysed trains - which indeed it was in very short order. By the time I was in my car driving home, a second impact on the World Trade Center was confirmed, and the Pentagon strike was being reported. I was safe in my car heading home but I felt so vulnerable - already infected with fear.

When I got home, I called my Dad in Trinidad and we stayed on the phone watching it on TV together, thousands of miles apart. The world never seemed so small, and we felt eminently touchable. 

A few days later my son - then three, came home from Kindergarten singing a three syllable song:

Re-mem-ber

Sep-tem-ber

E-lev-enth

when the twin

to-wers fell...  

At the time it was too fresh, and still too unfathomable an event for the song to have any more lyrics, and maybe it was enough information to give to three year olds.We all wish it were as simple as the towers being taken out. It will take perhaps another generation before those words could ever be adequate.

September 8th, 2011

2005

2009

2007

                                                                    the 'reading room'

The Carousel

2009

2008

2008

The New York Public Library

The Pond, 2009

December 2010

January 2011

January 2011

                                                               March 18th, 2011....

 

                                       The new drainage system

                                                        A work in progress

                                                       Late winter...

April 2011

                                                    the fountain, no longer frozen

 

                                 

 

the first daffodils in bloom

The Better Side

Picasso solved this
by showing all facets
of the figure at once –
a jigsawed realism
more whole for flaws,
which might have saved
Narcissus from his fair
reflection, and could have
cautioned the greedy hound,
who'd lose by snatching
at the other dog's bone –
alas! his own.

     - Lorraine Robain

Ghosts of the Great Wall

 after Everything's Shiny - My Walk Along The Wall


Shoulder to shoulder
the men are bent 

bricking the inches

down the narrow ridge
that cleaves the earth
from azure heaven,
blind to the sky 

and the arrow-headed

peaks marching away
by giant zigzags into
the future of the Wall

over which they are
bent bricking – into
which they are inching.  

I'm in Love With...Wayne Rooney?

Its not something I do often, but today I watched the soccer game between Manchester United and Arsenal. Outside, Tropical Storm Irene was winding down, and I was in a relaxed free-floating state that somehow allowed this game to draw me in. What really got my attention first though, was not the game, but a word.

Manchester United was already two goals up when the announcer remarked that "the organization of the Arsenal back line has been shambolic". Shambolic? I got the meaning - in shambles, but I'd never heard the word before.
It was juicy, it was derisive, it was rambunctious - and he practically spat it out. I had a British co-worker who often used the word ' bollocks' (nonsense, rubbish) - that connotation came careening at me too, as did shame, bullshit, along with, yes, shambles.

The announcer would use the word at least two more times during the course of the game as Man U broadened its already commanding lead to 8-2. Arsenal truly was in shambles and Manchester United was a beautiful picture of precision, unison and heart. The young Danny Wellbeck, who I've seen perform extremely well in the last few games, delivered two goals before he pulled up with a hamstring injury. Nani -who came out a little selfishly at the start, recovered to produce a nice chip into the goal at close range right over the keeper's head. Ashley Young deposited two flawless goals high into the corners, and Jay Sung Park wowed himself and South Koreans everywhere by sinking one in as well. And then, there was Wayne Rooney.

I think hardcore soccer fans would have a much better analysis of this than I ever could, but I swear something has happened to Wayne Rooney. Obviously, he has matured from a talented hot-headed kid into the current captain of the Man U team. But looking at his face and demeanor, I think something much more fundamental has changed in this man. In the yoga tradition that I follow, it is believed that when one's energy changes, so does one's physicality, especially one's face and 'eye-light'. As I sat watching him play, I was more and more drawn in by him. When he scored ( two free kicks and one penalty) he was like a child. No bravado, no chest thumping as before, just unbridled shining joy. Not shambolic, more like Shambhala. I do believe I fell in love.

Love Song Before The Storm

We are bracing ourselves for Hurricane Irene.
Hurricanes are very unusual this far north - but hey, an earthquake on Wednesday, a hurricane on Saturday - this is New Yawk, we can handle it! The only hurricane I ever experienced was Alma in 1974 back in Trinidad when I was only 10 years old. Trinidad lies at the southernmost edge of the hurricane belt, almost outside it - so we don't often get large storms. I was excited and a little scared...but more excited. She lasted only a few hours, but I remember the fierce beauty of Alma, her ebullience, her magnificent gray brightness,and the peculiar sound of the air - a kind of emptiness and spaciousness that was less like a sound and more like a feeling. 

When the winds stopped and the eye of the storm was directly over us, we came outside into the steely light. The sky and the whole world was glowing - and again, spacious is the only word that fits. Its as though the storm had cleared away everything - not physically but in some otherworldly way. We saw bits of paper flying high in the sky and marveled at what big pieces of paper they were, and where did they come from, Dad? Of course it was not paper, but sheets of zinc roofing that were caught up in the air. Alma took two lives in Trinidad that day ( plus 49 souls were lost in a plane crash in Venezuela). Alma also took out a large tree in the park that lay behind our house - which subsequently became a giant see-saw for the neighborhood children. This is the first of several trees I can recall 'losing' - none of which belonged to me, but all of which were properly mine.

This evening, after putting the chairs and umbrella into the basement, I came back up to the patio to take pictures of the moon-flower vine in spectacular bloom - 10 flowers at once. It may not survive the storm, and I'm not sure I can move it, entwined as it is on the patio railing. So the best I can do is sing a little love song to this beautiful flower which blooms in the evening - a taut pale green five-pointed star spreading its soft white petals open almost as wide as my hand, a soft jasmine-like scent coming from its heart. The point is, I have done it. I have made my own magic and I have enjoyed it immensely.

Come on Irene.     

                                                                                                                         

In The Neighborhood

Seashell Villa, Tobago

I spent most of July away from New York. Two trips to Trinidad, one sailing to Tobago and a zip down to Arkansas. Six flights, two ferry rides.
I went back to Trinidad for my thirtieth high school reunion (the number is marginally less jolting if I spell it out) and met up with about 50 of my previous classmates. To put this in perspective, the actual Holy Name Convent Class of 1981 comprised 120 girls, give or take.
The first couple of days were spent with my cousin and our three children in Tobago at Seashell Villa. We returned to Trinidad in a squall, which gave the entry into Port of Spain a special kind of charm. As it cleared, the mountains were shrouded in low hanging clouds, the sky was grey and the island - deeply green.

The reunion events were spread out over four days - comprising a beach 'lime' or hangout, an evening at a nightclub, a church service and a brunch. Quite a few teachers showed up to the church service including our long-retired school principal Sister Bernadette, who is now in her nineties, and the vice principal Sister Helen. We sang the school song, our graduation song (composed by one of our classmates) as well as some of the songs we used to sing (or lip sync) regularly at morning assembly. The service was held at 6pm - the school chapel suffused with the soft light of sunset, the sky streaked pink and orange.  For me, it was a beautiful, restful hour - and having my son with me made it especially meaningful. It is true that these girls, (now women) even the ones I hardly spoke to - gave me a gift: being part of the landscape of my life.

 in Tobago

 A few people remarked that I was 'much quieter than they remembered'. I found that really interesting as one of my agendas for the trip was to be more sociable and a little more outgoing.
I'd say I was pretty quiet at school, not a part of any one group, a drifter in terms of my connections with others, but very capable of clowning around if the mood took me.

At Fort George, Port of Spain

I took up yoga shortly after our last reunion about 10 years ago, and maybe that accounts for part of the change, but I have always been an observer, and seem to have become even more so. The next reunion ( a cruise) is tentatively scheduled for 2014, when we will all be fifty, or in the neighborhood.

Holy Name Convent, Class of '81, in 2011

Center back row - yours truly.

The Goodbye

 The goodbye you will never hear

like the hello you never heard

and all the words between me

and the echo I hoped was you

are in a room - the door to which 

has been closed but is still closing;

in my mind the closing is slowed:

the slow is the hello of who, the echo

the echo of empty - the room closed,

the hope of you and all the words.

                           - Lorraine Robain

 Photo:mine, moon flower

A Thousand Words

     

 
Pictures mine: Canon EOS 50D                                        

Coming Around

Moon flower

 When I last wrote about fences, I was bemoaning the fact that 'shared things' aren't always able to be truly shared... that they cannot be all things to all people at all times. I suppose nothing can.

I was frustrated about my neighbor's low tolerance for my beloved potato vine - which is a vigorous climber, twirler and overall hanger-on to anything offering the slightest invitation to its tendrils.

I am vigilant now about the potato vine, keeping the fence clear of it. Besides, it's a little difficult to truly enjoy something when that enjoyment contributes to another person's discomfort. I tried transplanting it, but it did not catch on in the new location. I did however, germinate some moon flower seeds. Moon flower is another climbing vine which yields huge white trumpet flowers six inches across - and these I have planted at another location away from any fence, training it instead onto the railing of the stairs which lead from my back patio down to the backyard. This whole exercise was very satisfying.

Cucumber

I tried my hand at cucumbers this summer- which was a rousing success. Interestingly enough, I used the same problematic fence to train the cucumber vine with nary a peep from my neighbor on the left. I also added basil to the mix, (ridiculously easy to grow) and thyme (which I found to be bit shy). Next year I plan to expand the vegetable garden, adding lettuce; and I also want to grow more herbs - as much for their fantastic aroma as for seasoning and garnishing. I do owe my neighbor on the right a shout-out for pushing me to grow more food rather than just ornamental plants. In the garden, almost everything is a hot mess right now: the hydrangeas are burnt to a crisp, hosta leaves are fried, and the ferns are curling. Mindful of the use of water, I've put the tomatoes, cucumbers and basil at the top of the thirst triage. I have also been giving preference to the moon flower (another heavy drinker) just because I wanted to see it perform - which it did.

                                                                                  
Adding to my joy this summer was the resurrection of a spider orchid which I rescued from my office.
When I took it home, I didn't have much hope for it, but after a few weeks in a shady spot it has three new shoots and I am hoping for a flower bract before the summer is out.

Spider orchid

Basil

 

Getting There



Trinidad, July 9, 2011



I am a lover of puzzles. Not just puzzles, but mysteries. Maybe not as much a lover of them, as captivated and intrigued by them. When I was younger, before the Internet and Google, mysteries could percolate for long periods of time in my mind.Today we needn't wait to find anything out, a luxury for someone like me.
But getting answers quickly isn't always the most satisfying thing; brain teasers, and tactile puzzles such as metal rings and interlocking wooden blocks deliver their satisfaction in great part through the joy of discovery and the delicious feeling of getting close to 'rightness' - that salivary sensation that one is on to something good, that a solution is at hand.

Two weeks ago, after trying for years to eat more healthfully, I suddenly felt the urge to detox. Well, it wasn't that sudden: I had bought a book on the subject about 8 months before, and stuck it on my bookshelf. I wasn't a terribly unhealthy eater by any stretch, but I could have used more fruit and vegetables and a little less junk food in my life - and I was dogged by an inability to kick the Coca Cola habit. There was a will, but it wasn't strong enough to make the way stick. I'd quit for a while and start again, quit and start again.

A few weeks before the detox, I actually did quit Coca Cola to lessen my caffeine burden. I'd been having some palpitations, so I eliminated all stimulants. For me, that was Coca Cola, the occasional cup of coffee and my favorite pekoe cut black tea. It was effortless because I was exchanging them for something I valued much more highly - i.e. my health. As soon as it clearly and uncompromisingly became one or the other, it was an easy choice.

So, on detox day I took that book down from the shelf and set about making an eggplant and tomato soup from a recipe within its pages. Just a few simple ingredients (eggplant, tomato, red bell peppers, onion, garlic, bay leaf and rosemary and olive oil) yielded a delicious meal that I enjoyed with my entire body and mind. It's the kind of rightness that can move you to tears.

I've also found myself needing less salt and sugar. And less meat. I wasn't planning on reducing these things, but there it was. What happened? A mystery. So many years of effort, false starts, so much recrimination - and such ease at the end? It didn't add up.

What confluence of events or conditions suddenly made this goal achievable? Were all previous efforts poorly timed, in some way deficient, or were they simply accumulative? I don't know.

But, I do have a theory: some time ago I began to suspect that I'd been skipping steps in some areas of my life; that I was trying to achieve things before completing the (sometimes very ill-defined) prerequisites. Maybe this was something like that. Maybe I chanced upon a skipped step, completed it, and presto! everything fell effortlessly into place. But...I don't know exactly what that step was. Or, maybe I inadvertently addressed a root cause - and domino-like, all the inner opposition to my stated goal fell away.
So here I am - one mystery solved, and no idea how I did it.

 Trinidad, July 10, 2011



A bad beginning makes...

     I can be a bit superstitious. Let's get that out of the box. I have my CDP watching over my shoulder, delivering a Smackdown if I don't heed its nudges and make a course correction. In April 2009, I took an Easter trip to Trinidad during what was usually the Dry Season. We were going to be there for 11 glorious days, none more eagerly anticipated than the four we would spend in Tobago. Tobago is a twenty minute flight from Trinidad, but I like to take the ferry. I love gliding into the Scarborough harbor with the day still new, sun sparkling on the water, horns honking as we disembark. We left the house at 4.45 am to make the 6.30 sailing allowing more than ample time for the 15 minute drive. 

We were halfway there when we encountered traffic - highly unusual for that hour of the morning. We slowed down to see a young man in the middle of the street, obviously under the influence. What came next was a total shock. He walked towards our (brand new) car, and glassy-eyed, smashed his hand into the windscreen, cracking it. Just like that. In the confusion that followed, my two brothers jumped out of the car, one slamming the car door on the other's finger - causing him to swear loudly and in the process, startling the perp into flight.

To make a long story shorter, we went to the police station which was a few hundred yards away, and told the policeman what happened. There was no squad car and he was the only one at the station, so the most he could do was take a report. One member of our party who had a friend in the Tactical Unit (a kind of SWAT team), called him up and gave a description of the young man, who we took to be about 20 years old. Within 15 minutes we had two officers in riot gear with machine guns - a bit like bombing a fly, but we weren't about to complain. We pointed them in the general direction and literally within another 10 minutes, we had our man. They brought him in, the station officer recognizing him as a known troublemaker. He was booked and released into the custody of his cousin, as these things go on the island. They were from a well known moneyed family, so we got his parents' phone number and a promise from his sober cousin that the damage would be repaired. That worked for everyone.

By now it was late, and I was thinking this trip was doomed, but my brother - a man 'born on a Sunday', said "Of course we're still going!" At the port, my brother-in-law produced the ferry tickets he had bought in advance and gave them to me as we were getting ready to join the line. I glanced down and right away noticed that we were booked on the sailing for May 14th , not April 14th.  Er, problem... While we were still pondering our next move, a voice came over the PA system saying that the 6.30 sailing for this morning was cancelled because the  Tobago Express had mechanical difficulties. All passengers would have to try for the 8.30 am sailing on the Tobago Spirit. Not only did we not have tickets for the correct date, but we were now trying to get seats on an overbooked vessel.
My Man Sunday said, "No problem". He took the tickets to the counter and began massaging the agent with explanations and gentle pleas. "...all the way from New York",  "...mistake on the date", " ...vacation ruined". She softened, and before we knew it there were fresh tickets for the 8.30 am sailing. Incredible! We took the lovely 2 hour ride to the sister isle, docking at Scarborough without incident.

So there we were in Tobago, and I'm thinking - wow, was I wrong, you can push through from a bad beginning to a good place. The villa was beautiful, with a lovely private garden, pool, and a fully equipped kitchen.

But the bad luck wasn't quite through with us. It rained every day after we got there - at the height of the Dry Season. Someone accidentally locked a bedroom door with the car keys inside, incurring another round of swearing, and requiring Man Sunday to jimmy the lock with a credit card. And sadly, on our trip to the beach, a young man may have drowned - an event I tried my best not to take in. We hurried past the people crowded around as the lifeguards worked on him, the sun sinking into the horizon. He was unresponsive, but I figured if we left the beach right away we would never have to know for sure. At this point we were already chalking up a list of every unfortunate event that took place on the trip, knowing we'd be reciting it for some time to come.



Sunset, Storebay - Tobago

  
From that time on, we built extra caution into everything, wondering what else could go wrong, but not really wanting to know. All through it, Man Sunday was bright as a penny, or as we'd say - as a shilling, making plans for us to go to the Argyle Falls and cheering everyone along. The Argyle, a three tiered waterfall, was a torrent after all the rain we'd had. We hired one of the guides advertising his services along the road - a spry Rastafarian: there was a small river to cross, a bit of jungle to slash through, as well as a slippery hillside trail to navigate without using the slide feature. Just as we were about to cross the river ( more like a creek) with our Igloo cooler, we were stopped by the police who had pulled up in a Jeep. In a very rare case of police pro-activity, the guide was asked for his ID, which he didn't have - but luckily another well known guide was nearby to vouch for him. That worked for everyone.


The Guide - right

  

At the Falls, we opened the cooler and shared snacks and drinks around, perching on rocks, dangling our feet into little plunge pools. With all the rain, the rocks were extra slippery and I fell into the water after impulsively trying to reclaim my son's flip flop that was swept away by a gush of water. Someone in the group yelled out rather angrily (abandoning as I had, the prime directive driving the day):  "It's not worth it! Let it go!" I was sitting in two feet of water - but he was right, safety first.

 All through this, my Man Sunday maintained the most open, curious state of mind - never succumbing to negativity, while my second brother (Wednesday's child) and I (Friday's) marveled at him. Were we born from the same womb? Man Sunday, I've been convinced since we were children - is an angel. Everyone who knows him agrees. Patient, generous, slow to every negative emotion or opinion. He embodies that popular I Corinthians verse about love: Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. I got a fine lesson in taking things as they come, and pushing forward with common sense and optimism. After Argyle, it was smooth sailing and we breathed a collective sigh of relief, believing that this bit of karma or whatever it was had finally expended itself.

    That turned out to be a tad bit premature. As we drove the car off the boat after docking at Port-of Spain, we heard the most ghastly sound of metal scraping against metal, coupled with the shouts of someone yelling "Stop!"  The muffler was caught on a misaligned metal prong on the off-ramp, and was ripping a hole in the exhaust. A third round of expletives went around inside the car as the ferryman approached, gesturing accusingly, "I tried to warn you! You're the fifth one this morning!" Then, as if the rusty prong and the busted muffler were just routine parts of disembarkment, he offered the next step: "You can put in a claim to the Port Authority for the damages - get a claim form at the office." That worked for everyone.