The Old Stone House

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The past couple of days have felt off. The fireworks, the masks, the apartment full of boxes.  

About three weeks ago, my dad drove us seven hours from Buffalo to our new apartment in South Slope, Brooklyn. Due to the quarantine, we relocated to Buffalo for three months just four days after moving into a new apartment.  

Whenever I come back from a trip, the city always has a way of making me feel like I’m home. But this time things felt different. The energy in New York had undoubtedly shifted while fighting the coronavirus and as the city starts to slowly reopen, there’s a sense of caution and uncertainty in the streets.

I also worried that maybe the change I was feeling wasn’t coming from the city, but from me. Maybe I was different. Maybe being in Buffalo gave me a new perspective on what it would feel like to live at a slower pace with a bigger yard. This uncomfortable feeling kept me up at night.

Then two weeks ago, Sal and I went to vote at our new polling place in South Slope. We packed up our toddler, stroller, and iced coffees and made our way to 7th ave. I felt excited to be voting for two democratic candidates who were challenging incumbent seats.

When we got to our new polling place we were informed the documentation Sal submitted online to change our voting location hadn’t been processed. In order to vote, we’d have to go to our old neighborhood about 20 blocks away. Sal decided to wait until his lunch break to vote, so I took a sip of coffee, hoisted my bag on my shoulder, and made the trek to 3rd street with Ginny.

Our polling place is across the street from the Old Stone House, a big brick house in the middle of the park that’s a local Park Slope landmark, and is right next door to our old apartment where we lived for 8 years.

With every street Ginny and I crossed to get closer to 3rd, my heart started beating a little faster.

Suddenly my anxiety and disconnect with our new neighborhood became clear. It wasn’t that I was out of step with Brooklyn, I was just out of step with my new neighborhood. Seeing the familiar faces, favorite coffee shops, and recognizable streets made something inside me stir and was a feeling I hadn’t experienced yet in South Slope.

As we rounded the corner to see the Old Stone House I burst into tears. We were finally home.

A wave of relief washed over me as I gave myself permission to be uncomfortable with being in our new apartment – the unease of not knowing where any of the light switches are and how difficult it is to set up a home while chasing after a toddler all day. I gave myself permission for it to be hard, for me to not know what I’m doing.

So often we focus on how to conquer a challenge. But what if one of the biggest lessons we can learn right now is how to let things be hard? To be in the discomfort and allow the icky feeling of the unknown to sit quietly in the pit of your stomach without trying to fill it. Maybe as a collective, we’re all feeling this way, as we examine our relationship to systematic racism and the lack of universal healthcare. 

We are in the middle of processing two pandemics while trying to take care of our families and our own mental health. 

It’s allowed to be hard. It’s allowed to be uncomfortable. But one way or another, I hope you find your way to your own Old Stone House and through your exploration you get to round the corner to a deeper and truer sense of who you are and how you can show up in this world. 

Xx,

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Per my last newsletter, I promised to share some of your most helpful anti-racist resources. Here is a roundup of what’s inspiring and educating you right now:

If anyone has any other anti-racism resources they'd like to share I'd be happy to include them in the next newsletter, so keep them coming.

Written by Erin Bagwell
Copy edited by Diana Matthews

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