THE DEEP END

The world stands out on either side

No wider than the heart is wide; 

Above the world is stretched the sky, —

No higher than the soul is high. 

The heart can push the sea and land 

Farther away on either hand; 

The soul can split the sky in two, 

And let the face of God shine through. 

But East and West will pinch the heart 

That cannot keep them pushed apart; 

And he whose soul is flat—the sky

Will cave in on him by and by.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

From Renascence (1912)

My month-long writer's residency at Millay Arts overlaps with the Jewish High Holidays. Rosh Hashanah falls on the Friday of my very first week. I haven’t made firm plans, as I am still learning the rhythms and routines of the residency—unstructured and self-directed, except for dinner. Every evening at 6:30 p.m., all six residents meet at the main house for a sit-down meal prepared in advance by the talented Chef Donna.

The dinners are long and leisurely, sometimes stretching past two hours. Over an unhurried meal, we tell our stories and fill in the missing pieces of the bios we submitted with our applications. A few revelations:

• I am the oldest in the group, but only by a few years. Phew! I had convinced myself I would be the Alpha Mom in a house full of Gen Zs.

• None of us is from New York. We hail from a mix of red and blue states: Kansas, Texas, Minnesota, California, Ohio, and Illinois.

• I am the only sober person—though barring the ghost of our hostess, party-girl poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, it doesn’t appear to be a hard-drinking bunch.

• I am the only Jew—a rare occurrence in my Upper West Side milieu.

So it is surreal, and a little sad, to be away for the High Holidays especially since the central spiritual focus is teshuvah—which literally means return. How strange to be on the family text chain with all its “Happy New Year!” and “What time is lunch?” and “Who’s bringing what?” messages and not respond. How lonely to live stream our synagogue’s service on my laptop instead of sitting next to my husband in Row O, Seat 113, behind our dear friends.

As Friday approaches, I feel a little homesick. Up here, Rosh Hashanah doesn't seem to be on anyone's radar, which makes total sense. Before I converted in 1996, I hadn't internalized the Jewish calendar either. In fact, there are still holidays I only know because of the NYC Alternate Side Parking schedule—that means you, Shemini Atzeret!  Besides, I hadn't brought it up, and with a name like Patty, it's entirely possible nobody realized I was Jewish.

Just as my writing is self-directed at Millay, I need to curate my own spiritual program up here. I have to make Rosh Hashanah work with this makeshift mishpucha.

And so, after dinner on Friday night, having watched the evening service online, I slipped into the kitchen to slice some local apples I'd bought at the Taste NY shop. I looked around the pantry and located a plastic jug of Price Chopper honey. This will do, I thought as I brought out the platter.

"Tonight is the first night of the Jewish New Year,” I announced to the group, “and it’s a tradition to eat apples and honey, if you’d like to join me."  

I passed the plate around the table as they enthusiastically dipped and crunched, punctuating bites with yums and thank-yous. The apples and honey were a hit.

"Here's to a sweet new year!," I said

One of the residents asked what else happens on Rosh Hashanah. I shared that we usually eat a round challah to represent the cycle of the year and we blow the shofar—a ram’s horn that serves as a sort of spiritual wake-up call.

“But my absolute favorite ritual is Tashlich,” I said, referring to the custom of tossing crumbs into a body of water to represent the habits, experiences, behaviors and anything else we don’t want to carry with us into the new year.

“I usually go to the Hudson River," I said, "but I'm sure I can find a lake around here tomorrow."

“Hey, what about the pool?” someone asked.

The pool?

Oh, right. How could I forget? We saw it during orientation on our first day. In the forest just across the road from the barn are the ruins of an outdoor bar and garden where "the flowers were watered with gin." The centerpiece is a spring-fed, in-ground swimming pool where guests would skinny dip during Millay's legendary summertime soirées.

Probably not Kosher, I thought. Okay definitely not Kosher. But creative and intriguing.

"I think that could work" I said. 

One intrepid and curious resident offered to join me. The following afternoon, we walked up the wooded trail lined with native wildflowers to the pool—a large concrete hole partially filled with a murky mix of spring and rainwater. We took in the ruins: century-old stone benches, a mud-coated birdbath, and a cherub statue looking like Puck perched among a dozen or so dead arborvitae trunks that stand as guardians of the garden's glory days.

At the edge of the pool my companion handed me a hunk of sourdough she’d bought that morning at the Hillsdale Farmers Market. We began tossing our crumbs, reciting what we wanted to let go of in the coming year:

Self doubt.
Fear.
Perfectionism.
Shame.

The irony of a sober woman performing a cleansing ritual like Tashlich at the epicenter of Millay’s booze-soaked revelry was not lost on me. But there was also something deeply meaningful about casting off the things that no longer served me—alcohol among them—in the very place where this talented poet drank herself to death. Having shed my own party-girl persona more than a decade ago, I hadn’t come here to celebrate Millay’s notorious excesses. I’d come to tap into her artistic spirit and connect with her creative life.

Dishonesty.
Envy.
People pleasing.
Anger.

And any comfort that is false and destructive —that means you, Trader Joe Snacky Clusters!

When we'd cast the last of our "sins" into the water, I pulled out my phone and read a secular prayer I found online:

Source of all Creation, I am ready to let go of all the ways I’ve missed the mark. Help me know that last year is over, and let those things that no longer serve me float away like crumbs in the current—or in this case, let them biodegrade into the ruins of this party pool.

Then we stood in silence, side by side in the golden glow of the waning light, as a red-tailed hawk swooped low and soared above us—a lapsed Catholic and a Jewish convert, strangers just days ago, now linked by a moment of quiet, unexpected grace.

NINE LIVES

 

I’m going back to school!  

OK, not really but it certainly feels like it. Low humidity. Cool temps. Day-after-Labor Day sweater weather. No parking spots on the block. A Jewish holiday at the end of the week. Yep, it’s fall. And like an awkward middle schooler stepping into high school, I'm going to be waaaay out of my comfort zone. I’m heading to a month-long artist residency in the Hudson Valley. A lifelong dream—or at least a two-decade fantasy. And it’s actually happening.  I’ve got all the back-to-school feels to prove it: excitement, eagerness, anticipation, pressure, anxiety...but mostly terror. Absolute terror.

“Stress is your body’s way of preparing you for success,” my husband said as we hugged goodbye.  

“I know,” I said. That was our mantra for our now-adult daughters whenever a new school year—or any nerve-wracking milestone—was on the horizon.

I also know from religiously reading the New York Times WELL newsletter that trying something new at age 60—especially when it triggers a bit of fear—is excellent for my brain health. That’s why I took Mahjongg lessons last winter.

Neuroplasticity - good.

Neuroticism - not so good. 

It was nearly 10am and I needed to be on the road no later than noon to make it to the 3pm orientation in time. Gotta go!

So I got a manicure.

I cleaned the house.

I emptied the dishwasher.

I stocked the freezer with my husband’s favorite Yasso pops. 

I called both kids to say goodbye.

I packed a snack bag - nuts and oranges and Splenda, oh my!

And finally, finally, finally, I hit the road just before 12.

Unfortunately, my Imposter Syndrome was riding shotgun.

Who do you think you are?

What are you doing?

What will you say when people ask you what you’re writing?

Is it a memoir?

Is it fiction?

Is it … wait, what is it? 

 

Not even New Wave ‘80s radio at full volume could quiet the voices. They were loud. They were mean.

About half way through the drive I stopped at the Taste of New York rest stop to pee. And to buy lunch. And by lunch I mean a turkey wrap, a local apple and a chocolate chip cookie. Oh and ten (yes 10!) large bags of BjornQorn Maple Popcorn. Never mind that the residency includes a fully stocked kitchen. I was spiraling.  I got back in the car and switched the station to Carpenters Radio hoping Karen’s soothing alto could calm me down. 

Turns out my savior was a grey-haired lady called Calliope.

 

“Welcome!” she said, bounding out of her office the moment I reached the campus, a dreamy mountaintop retreat flanked by fields of tall goldenrod.

Calliope is the Chief Operating Officer at Millay Arts.

Could that actually be her real name?

In Greek Mythology, Calliope is the muse of creative writing. She was considered the eldest, wisest, and chief among the nine Muses.  Ancient poets would invoke Calliope at the start of their works to grant them inspiration and artistic grace. Here she was welcoming me to my first-ever writer’s residency.

“We’ve been having some good creative mojo up here,” she said enthusiastically. “I hope we can keep it going!”

She probably sensed my panic.

- Nervous laugh - check. 

- Speed talking - check. 

- Bags of maple popcorn spilling out of the Subaru - check.  

 

But my terror quickly turned to wonder as she showed me my home for the next four weeks: a beautiful, black-and-white barn!

 
“It was built in the late 1920s from a Sears & Roebuck kit,” Calliope said as she showed me my modest yet comfortably appointed room. Then we headed upstairs to my writing studio.

“Wow,  it’s huge!” I said, marveling at the high ceilings, plush couch and oversize writing desk.  “I think it’s bigger than my first New York apartment.”

I felt a surge of pride.

This is my studio, I thought. Because I AM A WRITER. 

The next morning, my first full day at Millay, I flipped open my laptop, ready to write. It was exactly 9am. On September 9. 

9/9 at 9am.

Nine muses.

Nine lives.

The whole nine yards.

It felt like a sign. So I Googled “what’s the spiritual meaning of “9?” and here’s what I got: 

• Nine represents the end of a cycle or phase. It signifies that you have acquired the necessary wisdom from an experience and are ready to release the past to make room for new beginnings.

• Because it holds the energy of all the numbers that come before it (1 through 8), 9 symbolizes deep spiritual maturity, higher intelligence, and self-realization.

• Nine carries the vibration of cause and effect, encouraging individuals to live authentically and align with their soul's broader purpose.

Wow. 

Both of my daughters and my husband sent me lovely messages saying they hope my first day goes well and that they were proud of me. 

I am proud of me too.

In fact I’m on Cloud Nine.

Queen Mother

 

    On a balmy June evening during my first summer in New York City, I made my way across a crowded backyard party in the West Village. Our host, a gregarious art director named B.W. Honeycutt, had assembled a hodgepodge of hipsters to celebrate the solstice. As “Love Shack,” the new B52s song, blared over a loudspeaker I spotted her.  She was fabulous in her big blonde hair and giant sequin platform shoes. She batted her fake eyelashes as she flirted with B.W. and his date, a strapping young lad dressed in leather chaps and a white ribbed t-shirt. Towering over the rest of the party-goers, she was as easy to spot as an overgrown stalk of salvia in this garden of colorful characters.  I fluttered toward her like a butterfly thirsty for nectar.  

“Hi,” I said as I merged into the conversation cluster. Up close, her cascading Dusty Springfield-inspired wig, frosted lipstick, boobs popping out of her babydoll dress and long painted nails  looked astonishingly similar to the woman I’d left behind in San Francisco. 

“I just have to tell you,” I said a little wistfully, “You look just like my mother.”  

B.W. gasped.

The leather man screamed. 

The drag queen glared.

“Rude!” she shouted, before turning on her four-inch glitter heels and sashaying away.

“Welcome to New York, honey” B.W. said laughing.

“Welcome to my childhood, I said. 

Gus

Shortly after my dog passed away on July 1, 2020, his likeness appeared on a tree. I should say his licheness as a fungal version of our beloved family pet had mystically materialized onto the bark. It wasn’t like an algae blob that kind of looked like a dog shape if you squinted hard enough or closed one eye or looked through the phone camera. No, this was a canine apparition, a paranormal pooch so strikingly similar to our sweet pup it looked as if woodland nymphs had spray painted his portrait onto the dogwood. It was unmistakably, inexplicably, heartbreakingly Gus.

The summer of 2020 had already been a strange and surreal season. My husband and I decamped to upstate New York from the Upper West Side. We weren’t running toward the country so much as running away from the city. Renting a “Tranquility Barn” on Airbnb seemed like the ideal escape from the epicenter of the global pandemic. Before Covid, the owners of the barn had hosted yoga and meditation retreats there. Now they hosted a couple of anxious, middle-aged Manhattanites and our 12 ½ year-old Havanese.

We’d been in the barn a month when Gus passed away peacefully on a sunny summer morning. And I mean really peacefully. He collapsed on a pink meditation cushion and died suddenly after his off-leash trot along a quiet, tree-lined country road.

Without Gus, my husband and I continued to do our twice daily walks. It was a hard habit to break. One evening, as we ambled along Schoolhouse Road, the gravel crunching beneath our feet, I glanced at a group of trees and noticed a phantom pup staring back at me.

Gus?

The otherwise amorphous algae had transformed into a beautiful portrait of our dog on the trunk of a tree. I looked away at the road and then back at the tree to make sure I really saw it. Yep, Gus was still there.

My husband’s head was in his phone so he didn’t see it, and I was too stunned to say anything. Plus I was worried he wouldn’t see what I saw. In our partnership, I’ve always been the West Coast woo woo who believes in the power of vision boards, journaling and mantras. David is the practical, semi-agnostic former federal prosecutor who plays his cards closer to Blackjack than Tarot.

“My wife’s from California '' is a frequent refrain, and I was certain this would be another one of those eye rolling "California Crazy" moments. But it was too magical for him to miss.

“David,” I said, “Do you see anything on that tree?”

Without hesitation, my cynical, non-believing, rational husband yelled “Gus!” We ran over to the tree and wrapped our arms around its trunk. We patted Gus' lichen head, kissed his mossy paws and cried as we told him how much we missed him. And we began to heal that deep wound left by his sudden passing. I took lots of photos in case it really was a grief-induced hallucination, a mirage that would vanish with the setting summer sun. When we got back to the barn, I texted a photo of the Gus Tree to our Airbnb host and his simple reply said it all.

“Holy shit,” he wrote. “That’s a miracle”