Yes. That was my weekend. My time in NYC was quick and flurried, not just for the shear number of activities but mostly for the tempest of rain and wind that descended upon that great metropolis. Of course, I did not dress appropriately, a fact that resulted in two things: 1) my oft straightened hair descended into a mess o' curls and 2) my Chuck Taylors, so long looking new and crisp, now seem as though they have been through a great battle (that gives me more street cred, right?). I was wet, chilled, disheveled. And you might think: she must have been miserable. But no, friends. On that day of the floods (aka Saturday), every New Yorker I passed was almost in the same predicament of being utterly rain-soaked and wind-blown. Many, myself included, looked quite unlike our normal, put-together selves. We were unraveling.
As I walked (or rather, slushed) through streets and subway stations, I developed a deep kinship with the faces I saw. The intensity of the rain and the brutal winds brought out a fierceness in the city, and in me. And I liked it. I felt alive. I felt like I was in the thick of it.
Now I'm a generally peaceful person, but I think our humanity creates the need to go through a battle, and come out the other side. We want to rise from some sort of struggle a stronger, more resilient creature. This proves we are indeed alive. Not meaning to be hyper-dramatic about the weekend storm, I merely think that my momentary NYC experience served as a taste of how struggle and beauty can intersect in a moment of utter humanity.
Image found here (via hyerimages).