Here and now

I applied for my New York driver's license a few weeks ago, and today it arrived in all its holographic glory. I checked the tiny "anatomical gift" box on the back and carefully signed my name with an ultra-fine Sharpie. It's official: I'm a New Yorker now.

These streets are mine. The honking horns and golden lamplight just outside my window -- mine. Riverside Park -- my backyard. The greenmarket -- my grocery store. Those are my slushy sidewalks, my neon lights, my bike messengers. This is my city, at last, at last, at last.

As I gleefully examined my new license, memories of seeing Thoroughly Modern Millie flashed through my head: The Woolworth building, the MetLife Tower -- there's gold in them there hills, and I'm gonna get it or die trying! I was a teenager when Mom took me to see the show on Broadway. We had terrible seats, right next to a giant column, but we soaked in every second of Sutton Foster's spell-binding performance. I doubt that I've ever wanted a musical to come to life quite so badly.

I'm not 14 anymore, though. I'm a 20-something journalist, living in New York and studying with the greats. I'm surrounded by incredible friends and at last have found a Jewish community of my own. Oh, that I could go back in time and tell my teenage self to hang in there. Your city is waiting for you, I'd tell her. Your dreams are powerful and purposeful, and you're going to make them happen. Que sera, sera, I'd say.

I'm starting to understand why we have different dreams at various points in our lives. When I was 9, I proudly told everyone I met that I was going to be a pediatric cardiologist. It turns out that I am quite squeamish -- making medicine a poor career choice -- but I wonder if I'd have survived fifth grade with a teacher who said that science was "for boys" without my dream forcing me to believe otherwise. And would I have battled through high school without theater camp acting as my safe place? I'm no Sutton Foster. But would I have made it to NYU without my theater friends encouraging me to dream big, no matter how extraordinary my goals?

I'll be finished with grad school in a year. G-d willing, I'll be in my beautiful new apartment on the Upper West Side in a year, as well, with a new job lined up and excited to have me. I don't know where the next ten years will lead me, exactly. I'm sure that someday -- when I get married, when my first book is published, when my children are born -- I'll want to travel back in time to where I am today, to reassure my 22-year-old self. But I have enough hope to sustain me for now. I'm not done dreaming yet.

Here I am

"I found your old diary."

My mom was visiting me for my birthday, sharing girl talk and gourmet food with me to ring in my 22nd year.

"Um, what?"

Apparently, I'd given my childhood diary -- with Simba emblazoned on the front, I might add -- to my mom a long time ago. Oh, the silly choices that a high school girl will make in order to have more room for make-up in an old desk drawer... My mom laughed as she recalled what she'd found when she carefully turned the pages, which were stiff with glue from movie tickets and restaurant napkin rings that I'd pasted in as mementos.

Basically, every year, I wrote one entry. "Dear Diary, I am so sorry that I haven't written in you in sooo long," I would begin. Each entry was a time capsule, a seven-, eight-, or nine-year-old's idea of a year in review. I shared about the boys I liked at the moment, the classes I'd loved, and the adventures I'd had, promising to write again soon... only to fail miserably. Reportedly, one year, I even offered to name my diary, like a teenage boy naming his first car, hoping that personification might help to guilt me into logging my secrets more often.

I promise not to name my blog. And I promise not to offer any lame excuses about why all was quiet on the western front here this summer. I'm not even going to apologize.

You see, every time a friend or family member asked me why I hadn't blogged in a while this summer, I lamented that nothing exciting had happened to me. "What would I write about? I just sit at a desk all day," I constantly insisted. This is true. I did, in fact, slouch in front of a computer screen all summer. My summer internship taught me a lot. I know now that I need windows -- or, at least, that SAD can strike in the summer if you're inside all day. I know now that my hunch about not having the stomach for hard news was right-on. Telling tough stories is important; reporting on gut-wrenching crimes has its purpose. But it's not for me. I need joy. I need interaction.

I needed to learn about new media in a less sedentary, more innovative way. And grad school has granted me that opportunity. There is life beyond my computer screen, and experiencing it doesn't have to mean choosing a new career. It just means that I have to listen to my gut. I am a great reporter. I have a weirdly fierce love for women's lifestyle magazines. And I need to hold strong to that.

Or, as Mufasa would say, I just need to remember who I am.

I cherish my loved ones more than words can express. I bake when I'm stressed; I make a mean batch of cookies. I did, in fact, do a lot of cool things this summer -- sometimes even in the vicinity of my poorly-lit office. I love a good story, and I think everyone has one. I'm a New Yorker. I'm a daughter. I'm a friend. I'm a perfectionist. I'm a writer. I live every day with the goal of learning something new, and laughing along the way. I couldn't be prouder to be part of the young Jewish community. I believe in love. I believe in the power of my pen (or my keyboard?). I believe in beauty, and music, and prayer, and peace. My name is Rachel Liane Slaff, and this is next chapter of my life.

A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song. - Joan Anglund

There's no place like home

I just bought glittery Toms, and I took them out for their debut stroll this weekend. My friends all loved them -- and every time someone asked what happens when I click my heels together 3 times, I just laughed. I've always loved The Wizard of Oz.

Tonight, my late-night editing of the last paper of my undergraduate career keeps getting interrupted by seriously scary thunder and lightning. When I was little, whenever the humidity of Jersey summers had once again become too much for the skies to handle, Mom and I would sit on the porch and watch the thunderstorm roll in. The thunder would crash, and lightning bolts would streak across the darkened skies. Rain would pour down in sheets, gushing down our hilly street and transforming the yard into mud. As the storm raged, Mom and I would cuddle on the love-seat on the porch, safe and dry and happy.

I love my city. I love my adult life. I am so excited to graduate that there simply are no words... But I really wish that, just for a moment, I could click my heels together and be 7 years old again, hugging my momma in the middle-of-nowhere New Jersey, instead of sitting alone in my apartment, jumping every time lightning strikes.

When I think of home, I think of a place
Where there's love overflowing...

Long time, no type

I usually don't make official New Year's resolutions. Despite my penchant for to-do lists, I've always tried to live, love, and laugh with gusto every day - as opposed to being gung-ho for only the first two inspired weeks of each year.

Still, I promised myself that I'd make a few changes in 2010, as I began my last semester of college. I resolved to take more pictures and to write on my blog more often. (Will I ever be 21 in New York again? Nope. Better make sure I remember these moments, then.)

It's February 7th: I have no new photos on my Canon, and this is my first blog post of the new year. Womp, womp, womp.

But maybe - since I don't normally do this whole resolution shpiel - I can amend the rules? I loathe messing up; being late, spilling things, and disappointing people are all on the things-that-make-my-stomach-lurch list, and slacking on my resolutions is no exception. In the interest of avoiding stomach ulcers, and in the hopes of capturing the magic of my last 4 months as a co-ed, I'm calling for a do-over. Did I swing and miss? You bet. But I'm granting myself another metaphorical at-bat.

After all, January was pretty jam-packed with awesomeness. I love all of my classes, and I may actually complete my senior thesis (or, BLT, aka a Big Long Thing) on time and with some panache. I've celebrated good friends' birthdays, and I've gone on some ridiculously tasty food adventures in my neighborhood: Mercadito and Podunk are my current obsessions, albeit their guacamole and scones (respectively) are total opposites. I led the BC's campaign to help the people of Haiti, as if I needed another reminder of how incredible the Jewish community is. I've learned and laughed and loved a lot already.

Now I just have to remember to capture it all, to say cheese and to write witty banter, so that I can remember all of my silly young hi-jinks someday.

A New World

In less than two hours, it'll be 2010.

My Blackberry keeps buzzing with people's memories of where they were ten years ago; most of my friends' Facebook statuses are some variation of "Ten years ago, I was in middle school. Where did the time go? Holy crap."* What does that even mean, "Where did the time go?" Even if time could stand still, would we really want it to?

Ten years ago, I was 11 years old. I'm pretty sure that I spent New Year's Eve watching the ball drop in my pjs, cuddled up on the sofa - some things, apparently, never change. I was in 6th grade then; I loved ballet class, hated that I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend, and desperately wanted to fit in. I had these ridiculous pants with a tiger's face silk-screened across the crotch, which I adored and wore at least once a month (probably didn't help to boost my coolness factor). I still liked math class then, since I hadn't met that beast otherwise known as geometry. I still told people that I wanted to be a pediatric cardiologist when I was 11...I didn't decide that journalism was a better choice (less blood involved, theoretically) until 7th grade. I liked roller skating, *NSYNC, and going to Creanies for a banana split with Mom when I got good grades. I went to bed by 10pm. I was a little girl still.

In the editor's letter of Glamour this month, readers were asked to think about when they were ten years old. What would we tell that young girl? Would she be proud of us? Well, I hope the girl that I was a decade ago would like the Rachel of 2010. I guess I'm finally "cool" now: I live in a studio in New York, I'm about to graduate college, I no longer have braces, and I am, in fact, allowed to have a boyfriend. I think my younger self would be proud of my dedication to community service, and she'd expect nothing less than my absolute devotion to Jewish student life on campus. She'd go nuts when she saw my armoire full of sparkly, shiny dresses. Most of all, though, the Rachel that I was ten years ago would be proudest of the woman that I am now, I think, because I'm happy. I have friends that make me laugh, parents that never seem to stop giving and caring and teaching, and a city that never ceases to amaze and amuse me.

So, here's to next year. Here's to more living, laughing, and loving. Here's to a decade of job-finding, reporting, and change; here's to another ten years of exploring my city. Here's to the weddings (And babies? Oh Lord.) that the next decade will bring, and here's to growing up without growing old. Here's to being happy. I hope time does anything but stand still.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

*(Mine, for the record, says "Rachel Slaff is ready for a new year, a new perspective, a new decade, a new journey...let's go, 2010.")

Seasons of love

I was almost home yesterday when I looked down and realized that the sidewalk was strewn with leaves. Weren't those still on trees the day before? When did it become autumn?

For that matter, when did I become a grown-up? I walked out of a rough meeting in the journalism department yesterday and somehow felt sure that my mom would be sitting in her red car waiting for me across the street - but then I realized that I haven't been in high school for four years. Mom still talks me down when I'm upset, of course, and Dad still helps me see things clearly (how does he always do that?). But I'm a not a little girl anymore. I have to solve my own problems. Actually, I've been so busy lately that I have to decide which problems are worth solving.

So, on my way home, I crunched through leaves and realized that I don't have time to be upset. I don't have the time to be anyone but myself, to do anything beyond what gives me glee, or to share my life with anyone but the people that make me happy. (Homework doesn't count, here - I read a book on the history of the color blue last week. Seriously, 200 pages on a color. It was ridiculous.) I looked up at the trees on 12th Street and realized that they'd changed colors without a fuss - no upset or tantrum, just a subtle shift from green to gold. They were different, sure, but they were still beautiful.

I went to rehearsal with my friends instead of pouting last night. We laughed and ate fake chicken nuggets (holla, Red Bamboo) and sang, and I decided to face whatever is in front of me without fear.

I have no idea what my future will be like. But I do know this: I'll be the best Rachel Liane that I can be. I'll be goofy, and sweet, and a little edgy; I'll write with wit and live with intention; I'll cherish sunshine and friendship. Seasons change. Leaves fall. I have no idea exactly when I grew up; no one hands you a manual and says, "Welcome to adulthood." (Wouldn't it be great if you got one of those car navigation ladies in your brain when you turned 21? "Turn left here." "In 2.3 miles, you should ask that guy out." "Pay your bills." That'd be swell.) Life, though, has granted me enough friendship and love to make it through.

That Girl Had Gumption

On my way to work the other day, there was a young woman lugging a suitcase down the stairs at the subway station. I paused, to give her some time to get down the stairs, and then moved past her on the platform -- that's when I noticed that she had a white cane. She was blind.

Immediately, I was impressed. I usually have trouble maneuvering my suitcase, and I can see! I watched in bewilderment, in awe, as she calmly rolled her suitcase onto the L train.

I sat down across from her, shaking my head in amazement. I'd been running a bit behind that morning (sleeping in is great, until you get up and still have to arrive at work at the same usual hour) and was perturbed when I left the house with my hair damp and my cuticles ragged. At least I had my sight! The effort and the patience that this young woman had exerted in order to ride the subway that morning was beyond my comprehension, and I was immediately humbled.

I studied her as the train zoomed past the Union Square stop. (At first, I was embarrassed to stare - but then I realized that she couldn't see me.) She wore a purple newsboy cap, with gold hoop earrings and a pink tee shirt. She had a whistle on a lanyard around her neck, alongside a laminated card...I leaned to the right a bit so that I could read it.

CAN YOU HELP ME CROSS THE STREET?
Tap me on the shoulder if you can help.
I am blind and deaf.

I gasped. Oh dear G-d. How was she not scared out of her mind, riding the subway without being able to see or hear? How did she know when to get off of the train? How could she walk down the sidewalk in New York without being hurt? What could her life possibly be like?

I closed my eyes, just for a moment, to try to comprehend what riding the subway would be like in total silence and darkness. It was terrifying.

I looked up, aching inside for her, and turned towards her once more. She didn't seem scared. She looked happy, even. She was holding on to the rail contentedly...and that's when I saw her hands.

They were covered in red. At first, I thought it was blood, and I panicked. I narrowed my eyes, as if I could zoom in on her hands like a camera lens, desperate to figure out what was wrong. The red seemed to start at her fingertips, and it was shiny, almost glittery.

That's when I realized: it was nail polish. The young woman had apparently attempted to paint her nails herself, and nail polish had ended up all over her hands.

It took a heck of a lot of willpower, especially considering that I hadn't had coffee yet, for me to not cry. It was all just too heartbreaking and adorable. This girl was obviously determined to not be hampered by her disabilities, however challenging. She got up this morning, and, yes, it took effort, but she still chose to look her best. She still was determined to follow her glee. She was going to ride the train and carry her own luggage and paint her nails -- and nothing was going to stop her. She was going to stride through the crowds at Penn Station, blindness and deafness be damned.

As I watched her walk off of the train, I thought, "That is quite possibly the bravest person that I will ever see in my life." That girl had gumption.


Last night, the rabbi asked, "How did you get here? The answer is up to you. You can say you took the L train. Or, you can think about how you got to this point in time, this train of thought, this comfort level...just think about how you got here and how you're going to get to wherever you're going next."

I grinned, and thought of the blind and deaf woman from the L train. Her answer, no doubt, would be fascinating.

How did I get here? Well, Rabbi, where shall I begin? I decided that I would live in New York City around the age of 5. I told my mother that I wanted to be a journalist, in the car en route to Hebrew school from an orthodontist appointment, in 8th grade. I sat in a Mexican restaurant on Waverly Place when I was 17, and had a panic attack because I was afraid that I would get in to Columbia early decision and not be able to attend NYU (I am, I do believe, the first child to hope and pray that they wouldn't get into an Ivy...).

I realized that Reform Judaism wasn't enough for me anymore about a year ago; I decided that keeping kosher, despite its illogical ways, rang true in November, and I was finally able to pray, at Conservative services, in January. I considered joining JDate yesterday.

It took 4 internships for me to decide that I want to have a career in women's service magazines. It took my parents about 2 years of college to convince me that graduate school might not be such a bad plan after all. It took me 2 weeks to learn how to do all of the functions on the color copier at Good Housekeeping.

And, now, I'm turning 21 on Thursday. I'm taking the GRE for the first time on September 14th. I'm still waiting for my lobster (see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7WViFQiRgs0). I have a lot of traveling and writing and loving left to do; there are, undoubtedly, a lot more close calls and difficult decisions in my future.

How I got here is an amalgamation of hope and hard work and serendipity. Wherever I go next, I'd like to have the kind of bravery that a girl needs to paint her nails with her eyes closed.

Editing Carrie Bradshaw

I was watching TV on Saturday night, when one of my all-time favorite Sex and the City episodes came on. The very last line explains the whole half hour show, really: "Some people are settling down, some people are settling...and some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies."

I've always loved the episode because Carrie raves about the importance of zsa zsa zsu, that indescribable chemistry that makes sparks fly, stomachs flip, and relationships last. But, as I heard that line at the end of the episode for the bajillionth time, I suddenly was struck: what if you don't have butterflies?

I refuse to settle. (Ok, at least, I try not to settle.) I'm certainly not settling down. And, of course, I want a truly great love story.

But -- what am I supposed to do until those butterflies show up?

I spent the weekend wondering about my state of flux, my butterfly-less romance purgatory. I watched friends flounder in relationships; I noticed little old couples in Riverside Park and wondered if, as Carrie claimed, the memory of their zsa zsa zsu kept their love alive. I smiled and nodded as friends tried to fix me up, and laughed when my mother suggested putting on lipgloss and knocking on doors in my building until I found a Jewish boy with a cup of flour. It was exhausting.

You see, you can't hurry love (no, you just have to wait...). Sure, I could go on a date. I could go for coffee. I could march right over to the next cute Jewish boy I notice on the A train and exchange phone numbers. But I'm not in this for a booked calendar, or coffee, or a hefty little black book. I'm in this for butterflies, and those cannot be manufactured. Carrie forgot to mention that refusing to settle can mean settling in for the long haul.

So, enough already. I'm through with making jokes about being the third wheel, and I'm done with fending off those gut-wrenching looks of pity from happily coupled friends. I refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies, I do - but I also refuse to believe that I cannot be happy now. I refuse to wallow in singledom. I am determined to find my own glee.

Someday my prince will come. There'll be butterflies, and romance, and we'll ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But, no fairytale starts at its end. Here's to the first part of the story, the beginning of my fairytale, the part that Carrie Bradshaw skimmed over. Here's to chasing butterflies.

Living the questions

A year ago, I went home for the 4th of July. We had a great time shopping, BBQing, and watching the Phillies, but I spent most of one evening sobbing about how much I hated my job. I interned for a Jewish non-profit last summer, so I spent my time sitting in an (almost) empty office, sifting through old camp newsletters. Actually - to be more precise - I spent my summer asking questions, and getting mad when I didn't like the answers that friends and family offered. Why I was stuck in a cubicle all by myself? Why didn't I love my summer job as much as everyone else did? What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Why didn't I know exactly where I'd be in 10 years?

Back then, I still thought of myself as a Reform Jew. I made the same mistake that I so often criticized more observant Jews for: I didn't question my world, my practice, my choices. I continued to do what I'd always done, despite my inner sea of uncertainty.

Life is different now.

I love my internship this summer. It is undoubtedly the biggest opportunity that I have ever been granted journalistically: I am challenged, as a researcher, a writer, an editor, and a team player, every single day. I don't leave my job wondering why I continue to shuffle into work every morning - I leave the office every evening excited for what the next day will assuredly bring. I help to create something that women look forward to each month, and I am part of a tradition, of a cultural mainstay, that has existed for over 100 years. It is thrilling (as one of my dear friends would say). And so, thank G-d, this summer, I did not have an emotional breakdown on the 4th of July. There were no questions wailed into pillows, no late-night movies interrupted by smeared mascara and unanswerable cosmic quandaries. Instead, I spent this Independence Day watching fireworks, snacking on picnic food, and thanking our forefathers for granting themselves and their posterity such a glorious 3-day weekend.

This 4th of July, I was at peace. I have figured out, at last, that Judaism is not something I "do;" it is who I am. So, now, I force myself to question what is meaningful for me. I have to challenge what I know. I have to push my limits, and reach for new meaning, and grapple with this tradition that has been handed down to me. A great Jewish concert or a weekend reminiscent of campfire sing-a-longs might be spiritual for some people - but I've learned that sometimes I need a little silence in order to hear myself think. I sing at services, not to harmonize with instruments, but to offer up as sincere a prayer as I can. Being a Jew, as I've realized during this past year, means being part of a community that is larger than I can ever fathom - so I try my best to connect, through prayer, through thought, and throughout my life. Now, I ask questions, even if I can't find the answers. I like being ruffled from my complacency and seeing where it takes me.

That's the difference, I think, between me at 20 (well, almost) and me at 21 (okay, again, almost): I don't ignore the big questions naively anymore, but I don't waste my breath with the even bigger questions. I cannot possibly know what the future holds, but I'd like to think that I'll be better prepared for whatever comes my way if I'm able to wrestle with who I am and what I hold dear. So I wonder and argue and inquire. Que sera, sera.

My mom gave me a card almost 6 months ago; I kept it, even though the quote on the front was irksome to me at the time. (I wanted answers! I wanted things to be neatly resolved and folded up and put away.) ... The card makes more sense to me now:

"Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer..." (Rainer Maria Rilke)

A new world

I took the ferry across the river to visit my aunt in NJ today. We spent too much money on clothes, ate Chinese food and ice cream (not at the same time, understand), and walked around one of those infamous Jersey strip malls in the sunshine.

And, somewhere in between my egg drop soup and my lunch bowl, my aunt suggested that I should really think about working for one of the magazines within the publishing corp. that gainfully employs her; last night, one of my dear friends told me the saga of her break-up and then make-up with her boyfriend, explaining that the fighting was more or less based on the details of their future marriage; another friend is pretty sure that she'll be engaged within the next two years and just landed a fabulous job (a real job, with benefits and a salary).

Am I really old enough to be having these conversations? I feel ancient some days...especially the days that I spend with my adorable, toddler-age cousins. I pay my bills. I clean my house. I'm in charge of getting myself up and out the door. I'm feeling pretty ready to graduate. But babies and FICA and wrinkles, oh my! Is this normally the vantage point of 20-somethings?

And if it is, how exactly does one go about improving the forecast? Because, right now, I'm soon to be the copy editor of a trashy teen magazine, thanks to my aunt's connections instead of my own abilities, with lots of bridesmaid dresses in her closet and a bunch of dead houseplants (I may claim to be responsible, but I'm awful at remembering to water those things)...

The only logical solution, as far as I can tell, is to hearken back to the third grade and paint my nails Barbie pink. Ignorance sure was bliss.