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Ten years ago, weekday mornings meant driving from New York’s East Harlem to the Financial District with my then-partner and son at 7am via the West Side Highway, then dropping me off somewhere on East Houston Street to walk toward the yoga studio I co-owned at the time.
During that time, still getting high almost daily, I’d often get up in the dark of the morning and take a few draws on a joint just to get going.
(Today I get up to serve myself tea and sit in a much more delicious pre-dawn ceremony. It’s always been about connecting with myself—finally I’m actually bringing my attention to the wise silence, with no alteration.)
I feel mostly compassion for myself back then.
Anyway. One day, I exit the car near the corner of Bowery and Houston. A handsome, well-dressed, gentle man sidles up to me, reminding me to be careful; I’m texting in a crosswalk, cars are coming. “Thank you,” I say. What a handsomeness, I think to myself.
We begin chatting, the light changes. Somehow in a couple blocks (Elizabeth, Mott) he manages to show me some elaborate illustrations he’s carrying; he’s a creative designer and his office is two doors down from mine. He asks me to lunch. I brazenly tell him to look me up, which he manages to do. Within hours I receive a note.
James and me by DJ Pierce, nine years along.
Within days we sit down for lunch nearby, a wonderful exchange, I bring another friend to ensure he realizes there’s no chance; although we share obvious palpable energy, I’m spoken for. At the end he places his hand on my heart, or more accurately my upper chest, which has an indelible impact. Few hours later I receive a text.
“You’re an ocean of energy, and nobody wants me to drown, so please don’t contact me unless you’re single.”
Wow.
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