As we quietly crawl into the trenches of summer, as the sun beats down upon the city's restless pace, slowing it to worn-out roll, as the hot air hangs like draperies upon the buildings and lamp posts, I ponder. I ponder this little domestic city life that Gaby and I have carved out for ourselves. We wake early (so early) to the wails of sleepy-eyed little ones, and it is then that we begin spinning our plates. We move throughout the day in little spurts, traveling dutifully to our obligations, nourishing tiny souls with food and laughter and creativity, and putting bits of our own souls into our own projects. And with each little spurt of parenting gusto or professional responsibility or artistic passion, we pick up another plate. Just yesterday, it seems, I was lying exhausted and empowered in our queen size bed on freshly laundered sheets and a pink-skinned newborn baby in my arms, with nothing to do but feed and love my child. Today we have a four-month-old and a two-year-old, and a dozen spinning plates, all balanced precariously on our fingertips. For the most part we keep them spinning, somehow balancing the honorable responsibility and joy of raising a family with the reality of being two working parents whilst pouring ourselves into two different start-ups in the works, and navigating NYC life. For the most part, the plates never crash. But sometimes they do. Sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day. Sometimes it feels impossible. Sometimes I need encouragement and inspiration. That's when the beautiful and wise New York City herself comes to my rescue.
The city is one of my greatest resources. She is a source of beauty, serendipity, connection, and love. The more hectic our days become, the more often she reminds me, in little ways, of the success and peace that lie just around the corner. She gently nudges me along and encourages me to gain insight from all around, reminding me that the deepest beauty lies not locked away somewhere in a museum, but in the moment you spend with your daughter catching leaves as they fall, in the way you teach her to jump through puddles after a summer storm, in the aroma of fresh flowers from the farmers market, and in the glow of the Empire State... Each red brick, uneven cobblestone, shining light, vacant window, and lonely water-tower speaks to me, saying "This is it." And for me and my family, this. is. it. Our days may be sweaty and long and hectic, but they are days spent with the people we love most in a place that speaks to us; a place that inspires us; a place that drives us to not only to keep spinning the plates, even after one or two crash to the floor, but to dance while we spin.
