⧉ Coming back
Welcome back to Overlap, my personal newsletter. I haven’t sent one in a while, so I’m not sure what it’s about anymore. If you enjoy this kind of uncertainty, I hope you’ll stick around and figure things out with me. If this is no longer your thing and/or you have no idea why you signed up to receive it, it’s easy to unsubscribe.
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I left New York a couple weeks before winter solstice and returned on the second day of spring. Some people spend their winters at the beach or in the desert, but I went to the woods. I was in Pennsylvania with my parents while my dad recovered from surgery, and ended up staying longer than I initially intended. I suppose that’s a story for another newsletter. This one is less about going away and more about coming back.
I returned to my apartment early on a Sunday morning. Everything was where I left it, of course, but it felt different somehow. Almost like a simulation of my apartment — just a little bit off. The water pressure in my kitchen faucet felt weaker than I remembered. Chairs felt harder. The toilet seat felt lower. My mattress and pillows didn’t seem as luxurious as I imagined they were. And my plants looked like they had seen some things.
My poor plants. I expected the pansies and rosemary on the balcony to look a bit rough, and I didn’t think the indoor plants would be alive at all. The echeveria was parched and floppy. The orchid’s leaves were shriveled, but its crunchy stem of flower buds made me think twice about throwing it out. I soaked it with water and put it back by the window, then started unpacking.
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Depending on the route, leaving my neighborhood is an uphill climb. Coming back is an uphill climb, too. (That sounds topographically improbable, but it’s true.) This part of the city is relatively flat; I don’t usually notice the hills unless I’m carrying groceries or riding my bike. I left my Brompton here in New York while I was gone, languishing among the dust bunnies in the corner of my studio — and I wasn’t eager to get back on the street. Would my legs feel like lead as I huffed and puffed past the grocery store? Would I feel stiff and awkward as I pushed off at a green light?
I told myself that there was too much traffic. I wasn’t in the right mental state for biking. It was chilly. And it looked like it might rain. Or that I just felt like walking instead. But I think I was mostly afraid that I’d lost my groove — and that it would feel hard again.
Last weekend, it was bright, quiet, 55 degrees. I had run out of excuses, so I filled my tires, checked my chain, and wiped a layer of dust off my helmet. Leon, the Sunday morning doorman, smiled when I stepped out of the elevator. All the doormen love watching the “transformer bike” unfold.
Maybe it was the perfect weather; maybe it was the novelty of being back in the saddle after some time away … but I barely noticed the incline. I felt just as nimble as the last time I rode in November. I forgot to veer around the uneven pavement at 22nd Street, but remembered the timing of the traffic lights on my loop through the West Village. Swerving around cars on Bleecker and swinging a wide arc onto East 2nd Street, I had that old flying feeling. I cursed at only two drivers! It wasn’t effortless, but it wasn’t much effort. It felt smooth. And when I got back to my apartment, the folded bike slid into its spot next to the couch — just like I remembered.
Rachel likes to remind me that “rest is productive” and that a day spent loafing isn’t a wasted day. I struggle with this concept; it’s so easy to feel guilty about not doing something. But the orchid is blooming. The first bud opened on Easter and the third one unfurled this week. Its leaves are taught and lush again, like nothing happened.
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Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear from you — hit reply or send a message through my website to tell me how spring feels where you are. You can also forward this to a friend or two and invite them to subscribe. If you missed a previous issue, all the archives are online.
Until next time,
Jessica