Breaking the Silence

Eavesdropping is in.

I shove myself against the heavy wooden door of Tompkins Square Library as it miraculously becomes lighter. A friendly face is helping pull it open from the outside—the wind is too much. We exchange a smile, I thank her, and we wish each other nice days. Stay warm, one of us says. I walk down E 10th Street and make it a point not to put headphones on (1) because to put them over my wool hat requires a certain effort that I don’t have the energy for today, and (2) I’ve heard enough noise the past few hours. I want to listen to New York’s boisterous silence.

Now let me be clear: New York is loud, but its standard of silence is thunderous to others and grounding to me, a reminder that I belong to something larger than myself. I stop at Hello, Yam! on E 9th Street for a Japanese sweet potato, which has been my favorite food since I visited Japan last year and is course #2 of my Death Row meal. I sit there watching the people outside in their big coats, carting groceries and takeout bags and trying to keep warm. A young woman my age enters the shop, and we sit parallel to each other eating our sweet potatoes and watching the passersby. She has headphones in, and I don’t. I can overhear a man outside on the phone telling someone he can’t wait to see them, and I think about how nice that is and how if I’d had headphones on, I may have missed it. I savor each bite of my sweet potato, devouring everything including the skin. It feels ceremonial to do this. I thank the woman who served it to me and we wish each other nice days.

Outside, I don’t even make it 4 feet without stopping into a stationery store. I pick up and put down lots of pretty things that I would’ve bought if they were $6 maybe, but they are all $15. A card on recycled paper with a photograph of the the Empire Hotel in the snow. A candle that smells like bergamot and amber. A hand-painted ceramic teaspoon. The girl from the parallel sweet potato situation enters the store and still has her headphones on. She is missing the shoptalk and the Katy Perry song playing. She is not missing much.

I continue my walk and overhear a lot of:

It’s so cold, and

I think I’m making chili tonight, and

I love you

and

I don’t know what I’m doing tonight, and

What time is dinner? and

What street is this? and

I have to pick up the kids at 7, and

I love you too.

I relish in overhearing these things because they’re sweet glimpses into everyone’s busy lives. What a gift it is to be able to eavesdrop. As I cross Lafayette Street, a powerful gust of wind takes everyone into its wake, and someone calls out loud to no one in particular, “Are you kidding me?” The cold today is the kind of frigidity that reminds us all we have something in common, and even if it’s unoriginal to talk about the weather, it’s quite cathartic to yell into the abyss of Lafayette Street in a wind tunnel.

The sky is turning ballet slipper pink. I think about something my teacher said in my writing workshop today, about how your inner child needs to be tended to in order to release your creativity. I think about how as soon as it gets warmer, we’ll go on the swings.

Walking toward Washington Square Park, another gust of wind swarms the sidewalk and everyone—regardless of whether they’re walking with others—starts to yell. I’m alone, but I yell too. It feels freeing, all of us releasing our emotions into the wind. I think about how happy I am not to have worn headphones. They would’ve masked the sound of the wind and the shouting of the cold and frustrated people around me, and I wouldn’t have gotten to experience being a part of something bigger (yelling into the wind). I pull my scarf over my mouth and pick up my pace.

On my street, a 50-something-year-old dad leading a group of four young teenagers turns to his kids and says, “Look, guys! A record store,” as he crosses the street over to it. None of them roll their eyes or make fun of him. (None of them are wearing coats either, and I shiver thinking about how defiant high schoolers are when it comes to winter coats.) The kids follow their dad across the street to the record store, pointing at the posters on the window and commenting about what they hope to find. I’m so happy to have witnessed this.

I pry open the frozen door of my apartment building and head upstairs. I take my boots off, and before doing anything else, I turn on my record player. I’m ready to break the silence. Peter, Paul, and Mary sing “Blowin’ in the Wind,” and I don’t realize the irony until I’m typing this sentence. I am grateful for the silence and the noise. I’m grateful to be a part of something bigger.

And finally, I’m warm.

---

Hiiiii happy February! I hope you’ve been staying warm and cozy and doing things that feel comforting to you while still doing things out of your comfort zone. Thank you for reading (today and always). I hope you take yourself for a walk without headphones this week. Yell into the wind—I promise it feels good.

xx