When I was twenty, I went to New York City with a couple of girlfriends. It was the early 1980s. A friend of a friend attending Columbia University had an apartment where we could sleep—on the floor or the couch. We didn’t care. We were barely in our twenties, but we knew everything. The cockroaches were a little troubling, but no one complained.
In those days, New York City was gritty. Gentrification was just beginning in some neighbourhoods. Crime and homelessness were high, but the city was vibrant. The street fashion alone was worth the trip. We were given some basic guidelines that included being careful about who you ask for directions. There was a time before smartphones when that was how you navigated your way around new places. The other bit of advice was if we were in a bad place, we shouldn’t go down into the subway and get cornered on a platform.
After a full day, we found ourselves in an unfamiliar part of the city, so we asked a random person for directions. We got on the subway. We were three young women clutching our shopping bags on our laps. We noticed that most people had gotten off the train at one point, and a few men were sizing us up. In a panic, we got off the subway at the next stop and hurried up the stairs.
Out on the street, we quickly became aware that we were in trouble. Going back down into the Subway was not an option. I froze. I couldn’t speak. We soon had a group following us and taunting us. The street was empty except for a few stripped cars. I remember a fire burning in an oil drum. There were no taxis. Just people hanging around watching us. Fortunately, one of my friends switched to take-charge mode. We linked arms, and she informed us that there was a woman with children up ahead. We would approach her for help. She kept telling me to move my feet. I was frozen with fear.
Her plan worked. The woman sent her older son to accompany us to the edge of the neighbourhood. Once there, we spotted a cab and broke into a run, screaming for it to stop. When we got in, the driver asked us what the hell we had been thinking about going into that area. I was physically shaking and crying, trying to process the fear I felt. Harlem in 1980 was a dangerous place.
I was thinking about how I am feeling these days. I’ve had times when I feel frozen creatively. I haven’t been writing. I’ve closed a few social media accounts and stopped posting on Instagram. The world hasn’t felt very safe. But I need to keep moving.
I know many people, myself included, have been avoiding the news. We’ve tried to go on with life as usual, somehow ignoring Rome's burning. We’ve got streaming services and social media to help us fiddle away the time.
Today, I’ve been thinking about other dangerous and challenging circumstances I’ve survived, including sitting in a restaurant in Florida six months after the New York City adventure when a car drove by and shot through the window - right over our table. Someone yelled out, “Everyone under the tables,” and there we sat, waiting for an all-clear. I was freaking out.
I’ve learned a few things.
There are no three easy steps to surviving difficult times. Sometimes, we link arms with our friends and hope one of them has a good idea. We always need to use wisdom when asking for directions. We have no control over how life is going to unfold around us. Sometimes, we need to withdraw, get quiet, and find our centre. And sometimes, we get under the table in the restaurant and wait until the all-clear.
I’ve needed to step back from posting. Before I showed up here, I wanted to think and collect myself. I wanted to make sure my words were being written from a place of love, not fear.
On the wall of my office, I have a picture of Wendell Berry. It is a print called The Seer by Wesley Bates. I look at it and remember his words in The Peace of Wild Things.
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives might be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
What I know about difficult times is that they are a time for getting grounded. It is a time to remember that we can trust that which is greater than us to lead us in the peace of wild things.
We may fiddle at times. We may freeze at times. We may be freaking out. But when we get still and stop reacting, we can tune into our inner guidance system. It won’t lead us astray.
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