I am slowly fading here

When the wheels of the plane lifted off from the tarmac at LaGuardia that January day, I sobbed as if my heart were broken. 

I could no longer afford rent in NYC and was returning. Permanently.  To my Midwestern roots. 

That was three years ago.

"My life," I thought, "is over." 

Turns out, it was.

I am slowly fading here. 

Be wary of what you wish for.

If you are thinking of making a major change of situation as you change, consider what you give up.

  I gave up proximity to a potpourri of friendships in New York City nurtured during forty years of living there, watching each other's children grow. No longer close enough to hug your friend in person, meet at a corner coffee shop for a heart-to-heart (Zoom just doesn't do it). No longer a subway to speed up/down/ across Manhattan and other boroughs in minutes. (Door to door travel time from my apartment to my concert seat at the Philharmonic in Lincoln Center: seven minutes. I timed it.) 

I gave up walking along sidewalks that vibrate with life, laughter, music, beggars, dancers, sidewalk vendors, incense and bagels; poetry on subways; unexpected kindnesses from strangers, given and received. I gave up easy access to affordable music venues, Central Park, off-off-Broadway plays, walks in Central Park, and easy access to a dozen museums, i.e., everything that fed my energy, enriched my curiosity and gave texture and joy to life.

I gave up thousands of subway stairs that kept me agile. 

Where I live now, sidewalks are empty. There are only cars. Cars coming to four-way stops aren't used to seeing pedestrians and, even if they do, have been seen to challenge them. Because of this, sixty people died last year from being hit. So I wear a big pink hat that's hard to miss, stand on the curb, raise my hand with the confidence of a traffic cop, then, keeping the hand raised, step into the street and raise my other hand. If the car in question doesn't slow down, I make sure I have a witness and start waving both hands. If that fails, I retreat.

I walk the empty sidewalks tuned, always, to Bob Dylan, listening to truths behind songs like "I Miss You So Bad," letting myself feel my depression, weeping openly. I catch up with his songs I've never heard before and am surprised many of them have to do with grace, with aging. Then I feel better.

When I walk the empty sidewalks with Dylan at the end of day, I sometimes dance, twirling my body 360 while waving my arms like a demented Bernstein--no one noticing my presence or dancing because, as mentioned, there are no walkers to see me, unless they have a dog. In that case, I don't dance until the walker has passed by, so only the dog thinks I might be demented. 

Each time I see a human-with-dog approaching, I say hello to the human feeling like a puppy hoping to be petted. 

It took one full year before I got a mumbled "hello" in return. I was thrilled to hear the in-person sound of that human voice.  And, yes, they were walking their dog. 

I didn't really mind there was no eye contact.

Terri Brooks’ book, “On Loneliness: How to Feel Less Alone in an Isolating World,” is available from Amazon.