On the way back from work, my eyes always linger on the windows of a cafe a few blocks from my apartment. It is where sleekly-dressed up (or down) professionals and bohemian bourgeois spend a few hours socializing, perusing literature or importantly scrolling through screens on laptops while sipping on steaming cups of coffee or tea. Today, I decided, is the day that my humble body will step into its coffee-and-chocolate fragranced interior. I sit in a dimly lit corner table, attempting to look both self-assured and pensive, with an issue of the Economist to indicate my cognizance and intellectual maturity (this last item to withstand dubious glances which underestimate my adulthood). I came here to indulge in a warm cup of reassurance and the ambiance of a “fashionable crowd.” To me, more significant than their magazine-worthy aesthete is the confidence in their demeanor. I envy the self-worth and social stature that permeate the air around them like perfume blessing, emanating a shimmering and deliciously flickering glow of energy that unfailingly draws admiring glances even if for a fleeting moment.
I'm still waiting for a similarly warm, glowing wash blended with optimism to paint over my dull hues. I sit at the Gratitude Cafe, here in the most cosmopolitan American metropolis, feeling self-conscious, out-of-place and lowly. I run my finger delicately along the smoothly curving lines of the persimmon cup, having lost interest in its contents, allowing myself to fold deeper into the dark corner of the café - my presence engulfed and overshadowed by the humming of machines, voices and conversations that sound as smooth and rich as clotted creme. I resent my complexion, my lack of financial resources, my family’s problems, health issues, fatigue and the consequent anxiety which once again leads back to health and financial issues, circumscribing my life in a continuous cycle of YIELD or STOP signs. Like a self-inflicted, dull and pervasive ache, I also worry about the impending monotony of the mundane. Will there be anything else in my life besides work, sleep and the occasional shopping expedition? Is it wrong for me to want to be one of the fashionable crowd? To be professionally and personally successful enough to make myself and my parents proud?
Somehow, I knew this would end up happening if I came to NY. This indelible feeling of inferiority that threatens to blot out and smother my spirit – the spirit, the desire to sparkle like an illuminated crystal, casting the thousand colors of my passion, love and happiness onto the world as an expression of everything that is me.
Not only do I want to be optimistic about the two years ahead of me, but I also want to experience life to the fullest and be grateful for everything that I have been blessed with: a job (with a reasonable salary), amiable co-workers, a great roommate, a nice summer residence, 4 hour trip to DC and the friends who have been able to visit (will hopefully continue to visit). But an hour in the Gratitude Café hasn’t done anything for me. As I get ready to leave, I can’t help but remember Eliot’s lady, addressing the silent verses to myself.
“But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
To give you, what can you receive from me?
Only the friendship and the sympathy
Of one about to reach her journey’s end.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends…”
I step into the world outside, the inundation of smoke, noise and smell of sweat issuing a slap of reality to my senses. I rebuke myself for my “carefully caught regrets” and self-possession, clutch my purse tightly and continue on my way home.
“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do now know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands”
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