A friend of mine from college (found her again via Facebook) recently bought a house with her man in Vermont. Amy is living a rural life, feeding the cats, listening to the wind, recovering when she needs to from the bruises of being a New Yorker.
In London, on Oxford Street, it was push and shove for your supper. The yobs on their way to nowhere didn’t even bother to move when they saw you coming in their flight path. It was ram, move, or be rammed.
I rammed, most of the time.
Now though, in the face of yobs on a continuous cycle through my life, I’m adopting the Vermont viewpoint. I have to be easy, to tumble with the kittens and make the wind my companion.
She said to me: “You have so much patience!” and I thought I’d traveled into a parallel existence where I was another version of myself. Didn’t she know me? The me who didn’t want to wait for anything?
But I am Vermont now, slow food, compost heaps and bicycle rides across Manhattan. I am Iowa and lazy rivers and rakes not leaf blowers. I am patience not haste, violet not fuschia.
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