Tag: writing

Travel

Place of Many Wonders, A Day in My Shoes at the American Museum of Natural History

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

On my last visit to the American Museum of Natural History, a year and a half ago, I arrived at the Hall of Ocean Life just as the security staff was closing it to the public to set up for a private event. So much for saving the best for last, I’d thought, feeling disappointed. This time around, I made sure to make it my first priority.

I stroll along the mezzanine level of the gallery, my boots silent on the carpet, taking a good long look at my old friend, the big blue whale. Suspended from the arched ceiling in simulated mid-swim, this giant will never fail to impress me. A bench beneath a model of a, relatively, small squid with razor-sharp tentacles beckons me toward it. I oblige, already sure my feet will be giving me hassle by the time the day’s exploring is through. That’s what poor planning will do though, what coming on a whim to a sprawling museum in New York City in inappropriate shoes will do, that is.

I take my time sitting here on the squid’s bench, with the whale for company. I make wary eye contact, my imagination immersing us both in the ocean with the help of the muted lighting and the adventurous soundscape emanating from the speakers nearby. You look tired today old friend, I think, but maybe I’m just projecting.

A mom walks past with her little kids. “Ooh, look at the jellyfish!” she says to her daughter.

To be small and full of imagination in such a place of many wonders as this one. One of life’s greatest adventures, to be sure.

I abandon my bench after a while and visit the Antarctic Ocean Bottom diorama nearby which houses the aforementioned jellyfish, which is enormous. I read that due to the extreme cold temperatures and slower metabolisms, creatures living in this environment can grow to be many times larger and live many times longer than their warm water counter parts. For instance, a sea spider which may be invisible to the naked eye in a coral reef environment, could be the size of a dinner plate in Antarctic waters. Fun.

My eyes dart to Big Blue every couple of minutes. My mission is to take my time with the place on this visit. I complete the mezzanine loop and head down the stairs to the lower gallery. The manatee draws me in, my spirit animal, as Mike and I have joked in the past.

I pause at each display on my way to join a small crowd that has formed in the back corner, where a museum staff member is shining a flashlight on a dark, glassless display case. The Squid and the Whale. The scene portrays a fight to the death in the dark depths of the ocean. I’m happy not to have to stand here by myself.

Before heading onto my next stop, which is yet to be determined, a video on a large screen grabs my attention. It is about blue whales and how these creatures, the most massive animals living on the planet today, are able to thrive because of their efficiency in feeding. I learn that the lines on the creatures throat mark an expandable pouch that they fill with water and prey as they swim, unable to take another mouthful until the water filters out and they have swallowed back their meal. I wouldn’t want to find myself too near one in the ocean, I decide. With one last wary look, I move on.

I’m working my way up to facing a particular display case in the Hall of Biodiversity, but I’m not ready just yet. Instead, I wander past the magnified Life of the Forest Floor display that used to terrify me as a kid with its giant millipede, daddy long legs, and ant, each enlarged to 24 times their natural size, and into The North American Forests permanent exhibit. This one has never really captivated my attention until now. There’s a first time for everything though.

I explore the intricate forest dioramas, sweeping my gaze between the tree trunks, the wild brush and along the forest floor, up into the branches that hide little elusive creatures, and to the painted backdrops beyond. I take a seat on a wooden bench beside a diorama depicting a Northern Spruce and Fir environment, a safe distance from a mosquito that is attempting to rival the creatures in the Antarctic Ocean Bottom case in its enormity.

Sitting here, among the trees, I feel a sense of calm. I look up and spot a marten in the branches and remember a Scottish Highlands episode of Escape to the Country which I’ve watched more times than is socially acceptable probably. I am living in my head and I am at peace with it.

I wind through the rest of the exhibit. Two women are reading half of a plaque that pertains to a gargantuan slice of a Giant Sequoia’s trunk on display.

“This tree is a thousand years old,” one says with awe, “Amazing.”

I read the plaque when they are gone and two more women come up.

“It’s all about the rings,” says one to the other. She’s out of breath from rushing about.

Circle, circle, circle. Tap, tap, says her finger decisively on the picture on the plaque before she darts on to whatever she plans to breeze through next, not noticing that encased along with the description of the sequoia is a slice of a much smaller tree trunk that was 1500 years old when it was cut.

I decide the meteorite room doesn’t have the same nostalgia pull for me since the museum redid it, changing the fun, carpeted stair pit that once was a makeshift playground in my childhood to a more refined gallery space befitting of the bright gems it houses within. It can wait till next time, I think.

There’s a more pressing matter at hand for now. It’s time to face a big fear of mine… in the wimpiest way I can think of.

On my last visit to the museum, as I looked among the massive backlit wall of shadowbox displays of crabs, lobsters, and insects in the Hall of Biodiversity, I should have expected the spiders. As soon as my eyes processed what they were seeing, imposing hairy creatures the size of my hands, girthy bulbous bodies sprouting with legs and fuzzy pincers, I could hear my pulse in my ears, feel the pounding in my chest, the sweat dampening my hairline at the back of my neck. I felt the static heat of irrational panic and hurried away.

Not this time.

Guarded by a full-sized tiger for protection, I look from far away at first, shortening the distance little by little until I am about three feet away from the case. I do not look away this time. I focus on my breathing. I read the plaque on chelicerates and am interested to learn that horseshoe crabs, a creature of which I have no fear, are more closely related to spiders than to crabs. I imagine how I’d feel if the hand-sized spiders were moving and my heartbeat quickens.

This DIY exposure therapy is necessary in my mind as my phobia is threatening to keep me from experiencing an important life experience, the upcoming wedding of two friends in South America where there is a non-zero chance of seeing a spider of substantial size. There is a much greater chance of me not being able to sleep due to my irrational fear, both during the trip and leading up to it, so I need to learn to face this before it potentially gets worse.

I leave the spiders when I am ready to move on, pleased enough for now with my brain’s ability to prevent itself from overriding my nervous system to the point of complete uselessness. I remind myself that allowing fear to dictate life can lead to missing out on experiences that enrich and enhance it. I’ve decided I’m not willing to let fear rob me of living fully, of living well.

The North American Mammals exhibit calls me next. The wolves and the brown bears, the grizzlies, and the buffalo. I pause by the diorama titled Fisher and Porcupine, recalling the time this summer when Mike and I saw a family of fishers while hiking the Mt. Tammany trail. The plaque tells me that the porcupine is the fisher’s favorite meal. Seems like it’s probably an acquired taste.

I wander upstairs to the Hall of African Peoples to face a former fear that I have already overcome. My feet aren’t aching yet, but I park myself on a bench near a case entitled Science and Faith. People come and go from this dark little alcove of the exhibit, glancing at the glass case of artifacts with half interest before moving on. I watch them as they do not think to look up, where, just above their heads is a life-sized diorama of a man in a trance, perched on the limb of a tree, his face shrouded in the skin of a leopard, the whites of his eyes shining through, as he fixes his perpetual sights on his unsuspecting prey, below.

I first noticed The Leopard Man on a visit to the museum in my early twenties. I had been to the museum multiple times before on trips with my family or school or summer camp. Never before had the man perched on the limb caught my attention. When he finally did, it scared the Hell out of me.

Reading the Leopard Man Societies information plaque on the wall offers no comfort. To summarize the description on the plaque, the practice of Leopard Man Societies was born in response to times of tribal crisis. The members of this secret, esteemed, anyota (Leopard Society) would enter into dissociative trances as a means of communicating with the spirits of their ancestors for guidance. During these trances, they would adopt the behavior of leopards, an animal representative of death in the community of the Baali people of the Congo, attacking random victims from above and cannibalizing them as a ritual sacrifice to ward off conflict and avert disaster for the tribe.

As I sit on my bench, I wonder if any of the passing visitors will look up, but no one does. On my previous visit, a few women had parked their strollers beneath this diorama and tried to soothe and shush their babies as the babies wailed. They were completely unaware of the predator perched just above.

I bid farewell to The Leopard Man and continue on, following my intuition as it guides me up to the third floor and down a bare corridor to the Hall of Pacific Peoples. I pause briefly on my way in to listen to Barbara Walters singing the praises on a small screen of someone named Margaret Mead before perusing the exhibit.

The speakers in this exhibit pump out a soundscape of instruments and songs traditional of various rural communities in the Pacific Islands. I attempt to read a plaque beside a replica of an Easter Island Moai statue’s head, but there is a clump of people waiting to take pictures with the statue so I can’t get close enough. I loop around the back of the Moai and stop by a case on the other side, recognizing a black and white photo that was shown in the video on the small screen at the entrance to the exhibit. Margaret Mead as a budding anthropologist on her first field visit to Samoa in 1926, clad in traditional ceremonial dress.

I decide I am fascinated by this twenty-three year old anthropologist’s determination to travel to Samoa in 1925 and observe of the lives of its people for the purpose of better understanding Americans’ place within their own culture when it came to child rearing and young adult advancement. I pull up my library app and request three books to read more about her life and her wave-making first study, Coming of Age in Samoa.

I watch the whole video on Margaret Mead before heading out of the exhibit, but I do not leave her behind. She is going to be the primary source of resonance from my day’s adventure, I can already tell.

I backtrack to the Mexico and Central America exhibit, then the South American Peoples exhibit. My feet are aching and my steps have slowed. I have been here for over two hours, about my usual museum quota for a day.

The park is whispering through the walls from across the street, with its collection of meandering paths, towering trees, birds, lakes, explorers and inviting reading benches.

I wind my way back to The Rotunda and take a last look at the towering Barosaurus skeleton replica on display before heading out into the sunshine and across the street to Central Park where the trees and the animals are living, where the people-watching is abundant and accessible, and where the air feels as fresh as it gets in the city that never sleeps.

I leave behind the fossils and the dioramas, the Moai and The Leopard Man, the spiders and the big blue whale, carrying only intrigue of Margaret Mead and her adventurous spirit with me as my sole souvenir from my day’s adventure in the place of many wonders.

Mental Health · Music · Travel

Rocky Mountain Why

Beth DeFries2 Comments

When we landed at Denver International Airport after flying from Paris, via Chicago, jetlag was weighing on my eyelids, trying to remind me that it was 4:00AM Paris time rather than 8:00PM MDT, which was the time showing on my phone’s lock screen after turning off airplane mode. We’d had a feeling that this rapid time zone switch would try to snaggle our plans for the next day, but were we going to let it? No siree, thank you very much, but more on that in a little bit.

As the flight attendants strolled the aisles of our international flight, offering complimentary alcohol and sugary drinks, we said, “Just water, please,” because when you’re jumping time zones like a pioneering, turbo cricket, not to mention, going to a place that is located at a higher altitude than you’re used to, staying hydrated is your best asset for success.

On the hotel shuttle from Denver International to the Staybridge Suites, the shuttle driver decided it was trivia time. Our shuttle mates, a family of six, were game to partake, their flight to Milwaukee delayed until the morning.

“What’s the coldest letter in the alphabet and why?” said the shuttle driver.

I could not care less, I thought.

The Milwaukee-bound family, a mother and father and four daughters, seemed like geniuses as they threw out guess after guess from the seats in front of and behind us. Compared to us with our mushy brains fixed only on the concept of sleep just within our grasp, they were, at least.

“Nope…nope…nope…” said the driver, responding to one guess after the next, after the next.

Eventually, after the Milwaukee crew was all guessed out, he said, “You give up?”

Yes. Milwaukee agreed.

“The answer is B… because it’s always surrounded by AC.”

Ok. That’s pretty good, actually, I thought. Maybe I’ll even remember it.

We checked into the airport hotel and crashed after the minimum level of settling in. Showers could wait until the morning. Laundry too. We’d accomplished our goal. We’d stayed awake until roughly 5:00AM Paris time to get on Colorado time and make sure we’d be able to stay up even later the next night. The bed was the most comfortable airport hotel bed I’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping in.

After a leisurely breakfast at the complimentary buffet the next morning, laundry, showers, and some strategic repacking, we picked up our rental car and hit the road, bound for our first stop of the day, Denver’s Washington Park neighborhood, known to locals simply as “Wash Park”.

Since we had ambitious plans for later that evening (ambitious only when framed by the aforementioned time zone swap), the plan for the day was to take it easy, do some exploring, and squeeze in a nap somewhere along the way.

As we strolled past a pretty garden along the north end of Grassmere Lake Loop in Wash Park, we learned to steer clear of the squirrels, these being larger and more aggressive than those we were accustomed to. These are mountain squirrels, I thought. Put the word mountain in front of anything and it instantly becomes more, more impressive, more intimidating, more majestic; don’t you think?

I spotted two googly eyes looking up at us from just under the surface of the lake and took a picture for Gemini to tell me what it was. Carp. He has eyes, I thought, Paris still so fresh on my mind.

After our stroll, we stopped by a stationary store on South Gaylord Street so I could stock up on some cards for a few fall birthdays and then continued up the block for some lunch at Wash Park Social. We sat out on the front terrace, trying to keep “café culture” alive in our hearts for as long as we could, wishing it was more of a thing in the US, like it is in Paris.

We ordered a strawberry salad with grilled chicken and an appetizer called The Trio to share. Soon, our food was brought to our table and I marveled at the vibrant, colorful display of The Trio- hummus, pepita muhammara, and almond green ricotta with fresh baked bread. Mountain beautiful, not to mention mountain delicious too.

Our bellies full and our next hotel check-in time approaching, we headed back on the road, this time north towards Boulder. As we got out of the area of Colorado that I think looks like Kansas (though I’ve only ever flown over Kansas, so who am I to judge), the scenery started to become more exciting.

The mountains grew as we drove north and so did my excitement for what was to come later that evening.

We settled in at our next hotel and squeezed in that nap that was on the agenda. I slept about half as much as I’d hoped to, but you get what you get, right? We packed up our rain jackets and water bottles then hit up our hotel’s complimentary happy hour social for some light bites before the evening’s main event.

We’d been to Red Rocks Amphitheatre once before, two years ago, just to see the place. This time, we were going to get to see it in action.

We took the short hike from the Lower North Lot to the venue entrance slowly, taking in the incredible scenery, surrounded by ancient sandstone monoliths, each of them sculpted by the elements over time. We stopped every few stretches of stairs to catch our breath and swig some water. If there is one thing to remember about acclimating to a high altitude, it is that you need to stay hydrated. You’re going to need that extra oxygen; I promise.

I continued up beyond the level of our row to snag some pictures while the dregs of daylight were still available before meeting Mike back down at our seats, passing by the merch line that stretched halfway down the stairs of the venue on my way, sweating in my excess layers.

“I’m so excited!!!” I said, settling into my designated spot on the long concrete bench, shedding my sweater, “Bleachers at Red Rocks!!! Can you take my picture?”

Have you ever had something influence your happiness so much that you feel like it found you just when you needed it most? I’m talking right place, right time kind of serendipity. That’s what the band Bleachers is for me.

I’m a writer. It’s more of a hobby at this point, than anything else I guess, but hey, it’s what “I do” and that means something to me. Writing can be a lonely pursuit sometimes, unfortunately. Writers tend to spend a lot of time in their heads, guided by creative pathways of their own making. Sometimes the pathways are lit by full daylight. Sometimes, by fading dusk. Sometimes only the streetlights are on. And that’s when you’re lucky.

There was a time, years ago, while I was working on a novel, when I’d written myself into a corner yet again and those streetlights went out and a dense, unnavigable dark was what I could see ahead of me.

Music was a guide to the circuit breaker, a flashlight beam in the dark.

Bleachers found me after I’d canceled my Amazon Music Unlimited subscription, instead choosing to go with the sub included with my Prime account. How it worked was I’d plug Vampire Weekend song titles into the search bar and get one or two, followed by suggestions for other songs and bands that were totally new to me. Guess who popped up? It starts with the coldest letter in the alphabet.

It started with Dream of Mickey Mantle, a homing beacon, if I may. I followed it blindly, a spark that set me on a path that would lead me to feeling enlightened in more ways than one. Monumental changes in my physical and mental wellbeing, re-sculpting of my perception of success, and clarity for what my writing voice and style would become.

Now that we’ve gotten that little personal history out of the way, we’ve got a show to reminisce about! A truly incredible one, at that.

As the opener, American Football, was nearing the end of their set, it started to rain. We knew there was a good chance it would, but fear not! We came prepared. We weren’t gonna let a little water get in the way of a good time. We zipped up our rain jackets and pulled our hoods up.

While we waited as the crew turned the stage over, Mike took my picture in my rain gear and we decided that I looked like a big, happy, slug lady and as a slug lady, what I choose to “cling” to from that description most is happy, right? Not slug. Definitely not slug…

Jack Antonoff and the boys took the stage to Frank Sinatra’s My Way and I could feel my smile testing the limits of my face. On a normal day, my smile is bigger than most out there. My friend once described it as seeing every tooth in Beth’s head. From the roar of the crowd, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one experiencing a sense of sheer joy.

Live music is one of my “whys“, I think. When I’m at a live show for a band that I love, I get a major sense of this is why I exist, to be here and to experience this. There are other “whys”, of course, but since we’re talking about music, I just thought I’d mention it.

The boys opened with Sideways from their latest album, Everyone for Ten Minutes, jumping into The Van next, followed by one of our favorites, the high energy Modern Girls. The crowd knew all the words, older stuff, newer stuff, it didn’t matter.

At one point, Jack reminded the audience that he was from New Jersey, which is unnecessary since his music evokes the home state that we share in so many songs, one of the reasons why Bleachers resonated so strongly with me in the first place, I think. He called out to the audience.

Jack: Who came from really, really far away to be here tonight?

Most of the audience: Woooo!

Jack: Who came from around the corner?

Rest of the audience: Woooo!

Red Rocks Amphitheatre draws crowds from across the world to Morrison, CO, in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. It makes for an incredible concert-going experience. Pretty much everyone in the crowd is a massive fan and it gives a pulse to being in the audience like no other venue I have experienced before.

Boulders, sky, rain, music, and joy. Pure bliss; I’m telling you.

Jack tested out an acoustic version of one of the band’s first hits, I Wanna Get Better, transforming what is usually an energetic, pop rock jam into a confessional folk ballad that did perhaps a better job at highlighting the song’s themes of grief and recognizing when you’ve gone a bit off the rails and need help outside yourself to get back on track. He told the audience he wanted to perform it as he’d written it. There is plenty of space in the world for both versions, in my opinion.

Ricky Antonoff, Jack’s dad, joined the band onstage to perform one of my absolute favorites, How Dare You Want More. I love this one for its insane energy, guitar/saxophone duel, drum beat, sax solo, and the sense of community it evokes. I particularly love the second chorus on this one.

The boys went on to play the song that started it all, the first song Jack ever wrote for Bleachers, Rollercoaster, a full on crowd pleaser at every Bleachers show we’ve ever been to, following it with Tiny Moves, Don’t Take the Money, and I Wanna Get Better– as recorded.

The show ended with the song from one of my favorite music videos ever, Stop Making this Hurt. The video for this song was shot at the Bendix Diner on Route 17 in Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey and features all the members of the band as well as Jack’s sister, Rachel Antonoff.

As a Jersey girl who divided my non-school hours, growing up, between the shore, goofing around at my friends’ houses, my sister’s soccer games, various diner booths, and concerts, the video felt all kinds of nostalgic for me (and maybe got me craving some fries with gravy too, just a little bit).

The altitude cut the regular Bleachers concert outro short, the only possible negative of the night. By the time the lights came on and most of the crowd had filtered out, I turned to Mike and said, “I don’t want to leave.”

We took our time heading back to the car, taking the stairs out of the venue slowly, soaking up every last possible second of the experience and location that we could of our night in the foothills of the Rockies with the band that starts with the coldest letter in the alphabet, experiencing pure joy in the rain and the sound, under the open sky.

It was 6:30AM Paris time, but we were powered by our lingering excitement, not wanting to come down from that high.

The day after the show, we did a little exploring on Boulder’s Pearl Street Mall. We stopped for some lunch at Pizza Alberico and ordered a panini and a pizza to share. I opted to pair the Grand Teton Brewing Amber Ale with my meal and it was malty and delicious. Fall fans, rejoice!

We strolled the pedestrian street and set our sights on Boulder Bookstore where I bought myself a little souvenir which I’ve since started into.

We headed to Chautauqua Park next for a walk at the foothills of The Flatirons and take in the scenery. We even met this soul-staring bear outside the General Store.

“What’s the brewery called again?” I said as we got back in the car.

“Upslope Brewing,” said Mike.

I plugged it into Google Maps and we were on our way.

We ordered a flight to share (to start) and grabbed a table outside to enjoy the view of the mountains, because, you know, café culture and all that. That, and mountains, of course. We really enjoyed all the different brews we tried at Upslope. My particular favorite was their Spruce Tip IPA which tasted like a forest, if that makes sense.

On our last day in Colorado, we got an early start and drove up to Estes Park with an 8:00-10:00AM timed-entry reservation for Bear Lake Road in Rocky Mountain National Park. Because of a nor’easter set to hit back home, we’d moved up our flight by one day, so we were pretty short on time, but there was still one last must-see of mine before we headed home. We set Dream Lake in our sights, and, though a little cloudier than on our last visit, it was no less impressive.

We stocked up on some souvenirs in Estes Park for a couple kiddos we know before heading back towards the airport, through the part of Colorado that looks like Kansas, the mountains shrinking in the rearview mirrors of our rental car.

Until next time, we thought, before heading back home.

Cozy Posts · Nostalgic Posts · Travel

Thank You, New York City

Beth DeFries2 Comments

New York City on a sweltering evening evokes a sense of truth and camaraderie that isn’t always evident in the city’s boroughs. In the heat, the city’s truest self emerges from its facade of splendor and grit, too warm to layer on the wanderlust a minute longer. It cranks up the AC, adopts a loose, languid appearance that is just enough to scrape by as presentable, and just tries to find the breathable oxygen amid the auto exhaust and amalgam of aromas and stenches permeating the air. Top notch cooking scents waft out of restaurant after restaurant on 9th Ave, quickly melding with baked trash at the curb, only to be sweetened by a hint of perfume speed walking past or a trail of wholesome sunscreen fumes.

As the city sweats, its residents pour outside and sweat with it. They plod the radiating sidewalks to and from work, home, and leisure activities. They dodge steam vents on street corners, waiting off the curb to cross before the walk sign illuminates. They’re wary of darting critters on garbage collection eve as the rooftops across the Hudson tug the sun lower and lower.

Last night, I went in to meet some friends for dinner and, having arrived early, took to winding my way through Hell’s Kitchen in the heat. It was ninety-four degrees and felt over a hundred on the long stretches between avenues where the cross-breezes were blocked by neat rows of buildings.

I popped into Deacon Brodie’s tavern on restaurant row to cool down in the dark and ordered a crispy, cold Modelo which I sipped as I tried not to puddle too much on the leather-upholstered bench where I sat. As my brain simmered, the understanding dawned on me that everyone seated in the bar had most certainly walked in drenched as well and after that, I melted freely and unnoticed.

My brain wandered through memories of past summer days and nights on auto-pilot as it used to when I lived in Brooklyn, navigating by the internal compass that every New York resident develops in order to get by. North, South, East, West. Uptown, Downtown, Brooklyn, Manhattan, etc. It’s the kind of auto-pilot that used to get me to the L platform after work in the heat of July and August without remembering the two-street-spanning underground walk from the 1. Most of my attention usually went into wondering what the real-feel temperature was in the station. 110F? 120F? In the words of my late nana, “Does anybody have a meat thermometer? I want to know when I’m done.”

The nostalgia was strong yesterday as I cooled down in what looked like a miniature version of our old local, Harefield Road, which we decided was still our local when we moved about a mile away from it back when we still lived in Brooklyn. We did that because, in a city as everchanging as New York, if you don’t treasure the things you love, they tend to disappear. In our experience, after too long, doors that once opened to a place that made the city feel more like home, were found chained or covered with paper, sometimes pasted with orange tax evasion signs, or sometimes with a note from the former owners thanking their loyal customers for a good run.

I shook the nostalgia from mind as my friend Katherine walked in, showing she’d gotten my text about being early and where I’d decided to wait out the time till dinner. Katherine is one of a few very good friends who stuck from my time working in New York in my twenties. When I moved to New York, I felt a strong need to make friends of my own, as grateful as I was for Mike and the people who I saw as “his friends” at the time, though they are mine too now. The most obvious place to make friends was through work.

My process was to throw my personality at the wall (the wall being co-workers and acquaintances) and see what stuck. As the years have gone on, I am sad to be on the other side of learning that some friendships don’t stick like others. Whether it’s a general lack of initiative to coordinate or attend that happy hour or draft that text or email, or fail to get a regular catch-up going, friendships end up slipping through the cracks. I often wonder how friends, who I haven’t seen in a while, are doing. I try not to wonder if they’d still classify me as a friend or if they have a metaphorical sign posted on a metaphorical locked door somewhere. Thank you. We had a good run. I’ve grown up a little every year and with growth comes understanding, be it bitter or sweet. I can walk away with memories of good times past, content enough.

I am especially grateful for the sticky friendships though, the people who willingly catch up with me regularly, who care to know what I’m up to, what I’m struggling with, and what’s going well. They bolster and share their own experiences and goals and I am happy to be part of that. From talking to people among my New York circle over the years, a sense of isolation and overwhelm seems to be a common experience for the city’s new arrivals. I am happy to have overcome that in my own experience and to be someone who helps fill out other people’s New York community.

Analisa filtered in next and we headed around the corner to dinner at Elephant Ear and were seated, acceptable enough in our stickiness, that all too familiar residue of New York City heat and pondered the spiciness of the Thai menu items as we waited for our cold drinks.

Ashley came last and the gang was back together again, giving the latest updates for the month, not needing to do the whole “So, what’s new with you?” opener because we’ve seen each other recently enough to have that bit covered. The thing that was new, however, was the temperature, the drastic transition from the east coast’s bitter winter to an abbreviated spring, only to be thrust into August in the middle of May. Oh goodness gracious me.

After dinner, we parted ways and I headed to Bryant Park to meet up with Mike. I entered on the corner of 42nd and 6th and suddenly felt like I was in my twenties again. The lawn was dotted with people sitting on picnic blankets, hoodies, and beach towels. The cafe tables lining the gravel path around the grass were occupied with friends chatting and lounging in the slightly cooled after-dark temperatures. Readers were immersed in their books which lay open on their laps or in the grass. And patrons of the outdoor bars sipped, snacked, and conversated.

Bryant Park Lawn

A hot evening in Bryant Park is a guaranteed time machine for me back to fond memories of my early days in the city. Meandering the paths with Mike. Listening to a live band playing. Strategists taking chess too seriously. The library, up-lit and impressive, sheathing its collection of knowledge, history, and adventure within. When the heat becomes more palatable after sunset, you can’t help but love such a place. At least, that’s how it is for me.

If you ever get to experience the magic yourself, I hope you won’t take it for granted. Just sweat and let your mind unwind. You can’t fight the grimy residue and really, it’s part of the experience anyway. Only when you are seasoned with salt and damp with sweat do you become part of the tableau for everyone else, worthy of such a unifying experience with the people around you, the New Yorkers who call the city home and the visitors who spend their time and money to make the trip there happen, perhaps only once in their lifetime.

So, this one’s for New York in the heat, for the loveable beast of a city that I once called home. For the place that pulls on my heartstrings in moments when I least expect it. For the place that reminds me how who I was and where I lived helped to make me the person that I’ve become. So, thank you, New York City. We had a good run.

Cozy Posts

Marvelous

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

It’s a slow Saturday here in our corner of the world. Breakfast’s been had and tea after that. Our pajamas have turned into our actual outfits by this point and there is little planned for the rest of the day other than to prep for some visitors later on.

I am clicking through Paris on Google Maps, acquainting myself with the city for a trip that’s still a ways off, but will surely have come and gone before I am ready to be done with it.

The neighborhoods swirl clockwise from the city’s center like a snail’s shell in mint and white shapes, each one dotted with landmarks. Le Louvre with its pyramid and crowded galleries. La Conciergerie and Place de la Concorde with their revolutionary significance. La Tour Eiffel glittering in the blue night. Montmartre glowing at the feet of Le Sacre Coeur. C’est très merveilleux, n’est-ce pas?

We cannot see it all at once and so the planning ahead is necessary. We must pick and choose our favorites. It’s so difficult, but in that is the challenge, the fun, the stakes.

Outside, the ocean’s a murky sort of seafoam, dotted with a heaping serving of white sprinkles, under an overcast sky. It’s my perfect writing weather and so I thought I’d do just that.

Just outside, the naked rose of Sharon braces against the breeze, stewing in envy of the nearby trees with their branches clad in bunches of youthful green.

Mike’s playing Noah Kahan’s new album and I’m drinking in the melodies like lazy sips of cool lemonade on an August day.

The posts here have been few and far between these days. I’m sorry if you’ve noticed and had hoped for more. I’ve been getting happily lost in fiction writing instead, wandering into stories that don’t have endings yet until they do, meeting strangers that become important people in my life, creating my own simulated versions of reality from my little desk.

Since quitting coffee over a year ago, I’ve felt less of an impulse to share the personal stuff. I like the quiet in my head, the space to create and rationalize, to come to terms with the thoughts that have slowed from a race to a brisk walk. I am happy despite some chaos this year. I accept myself as I am and all that comes with that and there is more peace in that simple act than I would have ever imagined. I wish that acceptance for everyone.

I hope that once you finish reading this, you reflect on the miracle of your mere existence and make whatever you like of it in a positive way, whether it’s the most, good enough, or the bare minimum. Just know that you are marvelous, whatever you choose, and for you, I am grateful.

Cozy Posts

In Like a Lion

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Bonjour, mes amis! It’s March and today just seemed like a good day to write a blog post. I have no idea where this particular post is going yet, so just bear with me and we’ll meander on the screen together. How’s that sound?

Like crickets.

Ok. Good! Allons-y! What’re we waiting for?

Life’s been a little stressful lately, but nothing we can’t handle with little tiny baby steps, day by day. The temperatures here in our corner of the world dipped into low single digits a few weeks back and let’s just say the pipes at my family’s home and rental property down the shore didn’t fare so well. That’ll be a story for another day though, once I can draft a worthy intro, unlike that in today’s post, and once I can process the whole experience and all that’s been in the works since, amid a reconstructed setting.

Today’s a morning for decaf Earl Grey in my favorite mug, a big little thing that’s helping me keep sane amid the upheaval of the past few weeks. Writing has been another salvation, when I get the time for it, and reading, of course. I’m crawling through Maeve Binchy’s Circle of Friends and having a lovely time of it, with Celeste Ng’s Little Fires Everywhere on deck.

I’m wrapped up in a big fuzzy, brown sweater today and my most comfortable blue jeans, my cross between Hagrid energy and power outfit for the day, with a big splash of cozy. I feel tired already and there’s a good chance I’ll fall asleep on the couch at 9 pm yet again, in exactly what I’m wearing, too warm and cozy under the sherpa fleece pumpkin blanket that Danielle and Corey gave me for my birthday a few years back now, so there’s that to look forward to… What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, as the saying goes, and also makes you inexplicably sleepy, apparently.

We change the clocks this weekend and the days are getting lighter for longer. Spring is on the horizon and, with it, warmth and progress. I’m looking forward to some travel this month, to white sand and turquoise waters, to good music and a reunion with a goddess, but more on those adventures to come.

In the meantime, stay sane, stay warm, and find a little moment of happiness in today. 💖

Books · Cozy Posts · Health & Lifestyle · Mental Health · Reviews & Reflections

In Pursuit of Living Well

Beth DeFries5 Comments

It’s January once again, friends. The treadmills at the gym are more populated than usual, the temperatures outside are biting and sharp, and the potholes are expanding into craters with each new round of salt and snow.

The December electric bill revealed a number that I was shocked to see, so I’m choosing to live in fleece, chunky sweaters, thermal leggings, and wool socks regularly, to keep the cold at bay and the thermostat a little less high. I boil the kettle a few times a day and bundle up for brisk walks through the park or to the library.

In 2025, our resolution was to travel somewhere different every month and that was fun and a little bit intimidating at the onset, to be entirely honest. We actually managed it though, something I was skeptical would happen if you talked to me this time last year. These trips have enriched our lives and fueled our sense of adventure, though I’m not itching to go anywhere else just yet. The break from constant trip planning and booking and financing is a welcome one. I’m sure I’ll be desperate for some journey sometime soon, but for now, I’ll take the calm with gratitude.

2025 was a year of trying new things, of starting from square one, and of pursuing my creative goals with more focus and intention. The act of writing my January Postcard on this same day last year served as a major catalyst for this switch in my creative approach. Here’s hoping this post leads me to as much motivation as that one did.

I read a few books this year that helped me improve my productivity, nutrition comprehension, and relationships. I am grateful to have come across these books and to the library for having them. I’d recommend them all: Atomic Habits by James Clear, Eat, Drink, and Be Healthy, The Harvard Medical School Guide to Healthy Eating by Walter C. Willett, and The 5 Love Languages by Gary Chapman, particularly this last one which really had me reflecting on all of the relationships in my life as I read, from that with my husband to that with my family members, my friends, etc. I think that it is extremely important to be conscious of how the people that you love best receive love.

Coffee has not been a part of my diet since mid-April and I’m really proud of myself for this. This is the longest I’ve gone without coffee since before I started drinking it my sophomore year of college. I don’t miss the impulsiveness, the anxiety, and the aggression that accompanied the habit, for me. Whenever I hear a car honking at someone on the road these days, I think, “Somebody hasn’t had their coffee.” No, I don’t miss that agitation for myself one bit.

I haven’t set a resolution for this year yet. Perhaps I’ll aim to be more mindful, to be intentional with what I consume, and to be better at recognizing all the little things that are good rather than all the little things that are bad. I don’t know if a negative bias can be flipped, but I am going to actively try. In broad terms, my resolution is to live well, for myself and for those around me and to not take away from them living well. I will read plenty and write plenty because it gives me a sense of purpose and fulfillment which leads to more happy days. I will spend time in the company of the people who I love and I will be present and grateful.

I hope you are all reading this somewhere warm and pleasant, whether it is at home, in your office, or on your phone. Wherever you are, I challenge you to internalize three things that are good today, as you are, no matter how big or small. Two for me are writing this post and knowing that some of you are reading it. Thank you for being you and for being part of this cozy community. Cheers to all that 2026 has in store for us, the ups, the downs, the learning moments, the successes, and the failures to balance them out and make the good moments really shine. Wherever you are and whatever you do, I hope you are living well. Thanks for reading!

Cozy Posts

Stormy October Morning

Beth DeFries1 Comment

Hello, dear readers, dear friends. It’s been a little while since I’ve written here and I thought I’d draft a snippet of a picture for you all of a cozy, little morning on this stormy, October day. I invite you to bundle up in a big, comfy sweatshirt or a warm sweater and imagine yourselves drinking something rising with swirls of steam that warm your cheeks, the ceramic of your mug pleasantly hot against your palms and fingers as you join me on the big, blue couch. Help yourself to a squashy pillow for your back or a warm throw for your lap. Kick off those shoes, put your feet up, and get yourselves nice and comfy.

The wind howls outside and the waves of the Atlantic are churned, abundant with choppy white. The branches of the trees dance, the fragile leaves rustle, and the seagrass bows with the occasional strong gust. The bones of our home creak with each brace against the elements, sheltering us well from the storm as we look on from our perch, set high in the hill.

Inside, the lamps are glowing, casting little pools of gold in the corners of the room. The curtains are open to take in the view of the gray, blustery day outside- a Nor’Easter, in fact, a storm not bad enough to have a name, but a storm no less.

I taste the faint hint of orange peel in my tea and savor the lingering warmth from a hearty breakfast of steel cut oats with peanut butter and maple syrup. Soon it’ll be time to reheat the kettle. Would you care for a cup? Tea, hot cocoa, coffee perhaps? How do you take it? Milk? Sugar? Cinnamon?

Today calls for reading, don’t you think, something inviting and adventurous. I’ll pick a book or maybe two from the wooden shelf stocked with favorite reads, family photos, handmade pumpkins, and the little, wooden chess board that my dad made. Where shall we venture today, friends? I’m favoring a visit to the Burrow, myself, I think. I slide Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets off the shelf and flip to page 32 for a healthy little dose of cozy.

I’m a skip ahead-er when it comes to my favorites, finding the scenes that evoke a sense of comfort for me. Any other skip ahead-ers here with me on the big blue couch this morning? What are you reading today? Where are you off to in the imaginary world? Who are you off to see? To meet?

The rain drip, drip, drips from the door overhang outside and the neighbor’s coffee pot bubbles next door. I still miss the sound in my own kitchen some days.

I imagine the deer, who often visit, sheltered from the wind this morning, huddled and warm somewhere beneath a colorful arbor of branches, enjoying a breakfast feast of lingering greenery and late blooming flowers, undisturbed by people.

I’m headed to the Shire next to savor some peaceful nature, myself. It feels like a good time to pay another visit to a merry band of sweet, brave hobbits I’m acquainted with as they embark on an adventure that I’m absolutely certain will be bigger than four little hobbits could ever possibly anticipate, while somehow being just the right size, all the same.

You are welcome to linger as long as you like. Don’t mind me. I’ll just be nestled over here in the crook of the long, cozy seat of the big, blue couch with some squashy pillows for company, wandering another world for little whiles at a time.

Books · Cozy Posts · Travel

Monday Observations

Beth DeFries4 Comments

I’ve been waiting for a cool, gray day where the seagrass sways and the rose of Sharon bows in the damp and the breeze. The curtains billow at the open windows, faithful spectrals awaiting loves long lost at sea. Come back to me, they whisper, unanswered. I don’t have the heart to tell them.

The ocean’s an unraveled bolt of fabric, pre-hemmed with white and ready to cut, too unwieldy for the machine, too expansive for the hand, destined to sit on the shelf, admired and fading, to inspire projects too elaborate for fruition, aspirations never addressed, dreams destined to remain unrealized.

A freighter snails its way along the horizon line, containers catching the view from the highest stack. “Bon voyage, mes amis!” je dis, “Et merci pour votre service!” I’ve been practicing my French again. Montreal’s this week et je suis un peu rouillée, j’ai peur.

I write at the window, sipping Earl Grey without caffeine, feeling the lack of coffee today, but that’s ok. We cut our demons for a reason, right? We feel the lack of them sometimes, but we must carry on. The golden glow of the table lamps helps to fill the void left behind by coffee’s lack. I savor over-steeped bergamot instead, robust and resonant in flavor. I warm my cheeks, my hands in swirls of steam.

I’m feeling the doubt of sharing a long-form fiction project with a handful of friends a couple of weeks ago now, doubt being my greatest talent, or at least sometimes that’s how it feels. I bolster myself. Have courage; it’s there somewhere inside your head, in your heart, in your gut. Be proud of your words, that collage of letters, chapters, characters built in your mind. You love them and they deserve the chance to be read.

It’s Monday and I’m getting excited for the new adventures this week will bring, the sights and smells and tastes and sounds of a place I’ve never set foot in before. This week, I also anticipate finishing reading a series that I’ve been reading for over a year now.

I went to forty-sixth and second in New York. They sell roses at the market on the corner across from Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza. There is no turtle in the fountain, but the fountain is there and I wondered if anyone has reached the tower sitting there in that little urban oasis, tucked away from the fray, somehow in another world. In. Mid. End. Keystone. There’s just one thing left to do. Read. And then I’ll know what it was all for, this journey, this year. And when I’m done, I’ll buy a rose from the market and I’ll leave it on a bench for another adventurer to wonder at. For what is life without wonder? What is life without intrigue and imagination?

Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

The Adventurers

Beth DeFries1 Comment

We live for adventure, you and I.

We live for it here,

for each step, each breath, each song

sung along to in the kitchen, the shower, the hallway,

doing laundry and dishes that have to be done.

Life is a beautiful mess with you.

The mess just means we’re living.

We wear out our shoes and our jeans,

our socks and our old tee shirts.

There’s sand in the bath, hair on the sinks, and trash in the waste baskets.

We live and it shows.

It sounds and it looks and it smells like us here,

as it should,

as we’d live it.

We crave the smiles and expressions,

the weekend mornings spent lounging,

reading books and articles,

watching shows and “content” and DVDs,

playing games about planes,

even booking tickets on real ones, every so often.

We capture little moments throughout the day

and keep the ones that stick to make us smile later on.

We savor quiet nights, cooking aromas, and sampled tastes,

the smell of sunscreen and oatmeal in the mornings,

cold cream, soap, and toothpaste at the end of the day.

We capture visions from hilltops, from mountains, 

climbing up the little bumps on the world

to soothe our hunger to explore.

We store them in our heads and in pictures,

file them away for use in our dreams, our memories.

We make shadows in the sun,

heat at our backs, giants on pavement, 

their footsteps synchronized with our own,

tagging along on our meandering journey.

We set our sights on now and tomorrow and the next day, 

only looking far ahead when it’s practical to

which, let’s face it,

you do for the both of us, oftentimes.

We are an amateur cover band with no audience, 

singing bluegrass, indie, rock, and pop

to the tiles, the walls, the car windows.

We are background noise you only get on the hundredth listen,

wandering a broad and varying soundscape.

The music is often on, it seems,

but sometimes there’s silence and we like that too.

There’s sleep 

and days full of nothing

but sitting with you on the big blue couch

in this place where we live for the adventure that’s living,

in this place where we live,

you and I.

Mental Health · Poetry · Social Media · Travel

On Crickets and Fireflies

Beth DeFries3 Comments

I was reminded last week, by some truly lovely friends, that a handful of people actually read this. They brought up that I’ve been “pretty quiet over there” for a while. I was surprised that anybody noticed, to tell you the truth. I’ve been a little blocked with the personal stuff lately, see, or maybe just a little more reluctant to share for worry that people aren’t interested because that’s how it seems when you send personal writing out into the world and get crickets back. It’s pretty quiet from where I sit too sometimes. That’s just part of the process though, I tell myself. If people want to engage, they will. If they don’t, they won’t and that’s just fine. I need the outlet either way sometimes, the one way radio, so to speak.

The inspiration for the stuff that seems to do well with my readers on here, whom I don’t actually know- poetry (which still surprises me) dried up soon after I nixed coffee over two months back, which I don’t really understand, other than to know that I’ve never felt more emotionally stable than I do these days. Wouldn’t it be nice if the urge to write some rhymes or freeform comes back and I get to keep this nice, calm brain? Is life that good? I sure hope so.

It’s been hot here in NJ for the past few days after feeling like March for weeks beforehand. I was tired of the rain and the cold, but I wouldn’t mind if the cool, stormy weather came calling again, looking for a place to crash after a flight delay.

We took a trip to Miramar Beach, FL this month. I didn’t write about it and I probably won’t beyond this. It was restful and fun with a lot of family time that made me smile and a few dips in the turquoise Gulf that’ll have me missing that beautiful, warm water with each icy plunge into the Atlantic this summer.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I was lucky enough to see some really wonderful friends last week, then some more later in the week, one of whom I hadn’t caught up with in many years. I’m pretty terrible at keeping in touch, it turns out, other than writing here and even that’s not been so good lately. I don’t even use social media anymore. It felt too inauthentic, the line between “friends” and strangers too blurred.

When I’m with my people face to face, I try to make up for lost time. It’s always so refreshing to see a familiar face, to hear their laugh or tone of voice, or to catch the unique little mannerisms or humor that make my loved ones who they are. It’s like watching fireflies in the indigo night, little blips of brilliance that transform the dark to magic.

I hope you are all happy and staying cool and thank you, as always, for reading. And thank you, Jean, for calling me out. I needed it. 💖