The Resilient Ones

Darkness has flooded my room. I nervously try to avoid pressing power buttons on any of the number of electronics that surround me. Has the power gone out? Did we buy enough if it did? When will it come back on? I go to plug in my computer and to my dismay, the charge light comes on. Hurricane Sandy has completely spared my apartment building—and for the most part my neighborhood: Bushwick Brooklyn.

And I feel nothing but gratefulness for that—but sadness for all that I am seeing across the East River.

My friends on the Island are without power. Those in the lower east side, and most below 34^th street- my fellow New Yorkers are too. The subways have flooded, the tunnels are closed, and homes have been destroyed. Cars are floating down the streets—the Brooklyn Bridge Park Carousel is now a submarin-o-sel, and a hospital was evacuated late in the night.

I am in Bushwick Brooklyn, but from the lack of devastation outside, I could be anywhere—watching the news and following the Twitter updates just the way everyone else is. Though the island is just 5 miles from me, I feel a world apart—even if my heart feels closer than ever.

Last night, I updated my Twitter feed, obsessively. And each time I read the word “Safety,” I felt chills run through every part of me. Around 8pm, as the storm surge peaked, and pictures followed.  Tears flooded my face.  “Manhattan is in trouble,” I whispered. “What will happen?” “How will we recover?” “What can I do to help—while I’ve still got electricity?” 

The answer at that moment was nothing. 

And as I learned this morning, it could be days til people have power again—til the subways run, til people are back in their homes. But I realize, now, that even though I physically can’t help—the same attitude that continuously helps me push forward through the crowded streets of ambitious actors, actresses, lawyers, engineers, business people, accountants, stage hands, producers, directors, law enforcers, health and medical officials, and more—that NEW YORK ATTITUDE—the NEW YORK LOVE—can be helpful..

The truth is New Yorkers are resilient. They’ve seen the lights go out on Broadway. They’ve experienced bombs rumble under ground. They’ve watched their iconic buildings collapsed. And each time they’ve risen to the occasion to come back—to reassemble—to regain their composure—to help a neighbor—or a friend—or the elderly—or a child. New York is filled with people who fight battles every day to survive metaphorical storms.  And today, with this very real aftermath of a devastating storm—New York is still filled with those people—those same resilient people. And I know we’ll all get through this, together. New York City is our home--and it's not going anywhere--and neither are we. 

Warm Wishes to my fellow New Yorkers—and those who felt Sandy’s wrath all up the east coast.

Love,

Libs on the Reel

We are all Remembering

Written on 9/11/2012: Posted on 9/12/2012

I live in a city that has been built off of decadent dreams and determination; a city that has seen dim days and darkness; and a city that has dug deeply. I live in the greatest city in the world. I wasn’t here when the lights went down on Broadway, or when a bomb rustled underground—or when the towers fell—But I am here now—and I can tell you—There’s NO place quite like New York City.

_________________________________________________________________________________

It’s a quiet morning in the Big Apple—a somber one. I walk out of the subway station at Union Square. I walk south. En route to an early morning coffee date, I spot the Freedom Tower proudly standing over downtown New York. I close my eyes. I smile. I inhale. I hold my breath. I exhale. I open my eyes. It’s still there. And so is New York City’s heartbeat.

Eleven years ago, today, the heart of this city went into arrest—and the big apple—the state—and the country mourned the loss of thousands of people as two of the tallest buildings in the United States came crumbling to the ground after two planes crashed directly into them during morning rush hour.

I look to my left, and I see three young girls, books in tow, heading to class. These young girls, who can be no older than sophomores in college, were in elementary school when the 9/11 attacks took place. They could have had parents in the buildings—they could have lived across the country—they could have been banned from watching the tele in school (I was). But they are here now.

I look at my phone. 7:50am. I was heading into school. I was getting ready for a Code of Conduct Meeting. I’d been to New York City less than a handful of times. But I am here now.

I check my Facebook—friends who lost friends—friends who lost family members post. A former co-worker reposts his video of the tragedy—and people across the world are Instagramming memorial photos. Followers and those I follow are Tweeting their tributes. I note emails from friends who have moved away from this city—friends that spent many years here before moving away. Friends that experienced the terror of the time—that watched the buildings come down. Their souls are all here even if they are physically far away.

I watch as people walk their dogs past me. They are older. I see a man in his fifties—a woman in her forties—another man—and a woman staring at 1 World Trade from her seat outside a coffee shop. These people could have been here – these people could have worked in one of the buildings– they could have seen the completion in the 1970’s—they could have bragged about living in the city with the tallest towers in the world. These people are breathing. They are living. They are remembering. We are all remembering.

It’s now night and I watch as two children dance under the Washington Square Park arch. They weren’t alive when the towers came down, when the future idea of war for our soldiers suddenly became the present; when people cried and mourned. These children may not have been thoughts, even,  but they are here now—in a community that strives to live on despite the past.

No matter where we were—what age we were---or are now—what connection we had—being here—in this city today—connects us all. This beautiful, brilliant city that 8 million call home…this beautiful, brilliant city that breathes despite the dust—

This city that’s heart beats despite that dreary morning.

To those who lost their families—their friends—their colleagues—their loved ones—in any of the 9/11 attacks or post 9/11 attacks--my heart is with you. Forever and Always. We Remember.

Cloudy with a 100% Chance of Smiles

It feels great to be up in the air again, to watch the clouds, for a short period of time from above--rather than below; to see the world--the most beautiful canvas that there is just full of opportunity for growth and life.

A lot of people don't like to fly in planes. I love it. It's the one time I can disappear and enjoy a brand new outlook--a new view--a new perspective. It's one of the few times I can disconnect from all outside wires of communication--and access only myself.

Solsbury Hill comes on my iPod, and I smile. I love this--this freedom--this beautiful-eye-opening freedom.

I close my eyes, "my heart going boom, boom, boom." I've been to this place before, THIS place, way up high. Not just when I am literally in a plane, but every-time I close my eyes and get lost in my favorite place.

I've always had an obsession with the sky. When I was young, the trim to my room was the blue sky and clouds. I didn't want it any other way. I was stubborn. In 7th grade sewing class, when we were asked to buy patterns for the pillows we'd later be making, I chose the fabric at the store that had a sky print. When people ask me if I could have any power in the world--that's easy--flying.

I close my eyes, and I am on a cloud. It's simple and soft. I use it like Aladdin's magic carpet, until I want a new view--Then I just pop on over to another cloud. I float over New York City, and then somehow teleport myself to my hometown--and time travel to when I was in high school. I watch my mother out in the yard-and see my friends and me playing sports at the high school.

I breathe it in. I breathe it all in.

I feel myself smile, and then I let out a little laugh. I feel my eyes twitch. I am present, but yet so far gone. This is what it means to go to my favorite place in the entire world--to feel present--and away...to know that this place, this amazing ride through the sky is simply one ME moment away-that I can take off any time I want.

I come back to myself and where I am. This time I am lucky enough that when I open my eyes--I am still up in the sky--still up above the clouds--still smiling.

Here's a toast to all those who hear me all too well--"Your art Matters--It's what got me here": Part 2

***Disclaimer: The title is a mash-up of the Eve 6 Song and a quote from One Tree Hill***

It's been nearly two years since I wrote an open thank you note to all the people that have inspired me. Two years. I should be saying thank you every day. 

Because truly, "Your art matters"--yes you--"It's what got me here." (One Tree Hill)

I am a go getter--a strong-brave--courageous-lively individual. But I am also grateful. I didn't get here on my own. I got here through all of you--through all of you in my past--through all of you who are in my present--through all of you that I've only met for moments--seconds in my life. I got here through my past--I got here through looking towards the future--and I got here through your constant pushes, your endless support, your brilliant love and passion for life and whatever it may bring. I got here through you. Yes--you.

I didn't always wear my heart on my sleeve when it came to what I truly wanted. The truth is--I've always wanted to be a performer--an artist--a creative soul giving her most intimate thoughts and gifts through words and writing on the side of the street. I always wanted to be in the school plays, take voice lessons so I could be on Broadway, and make art. Growing up, the only reality TV show I wanted to be on was Say What Karaoke. But up until my senior year of college, I never acted on it.  I am not sure if I was scared of what people would think of me--or if I just didn't have the confidence in myself. Whatever wall was stopping me seemed unbreakable. But I don't regret waiting so long to find my inner arteest (hehe)--because along the way, I formed friendships and long-lasting relationships with people who taught me to love myself and push myself in ways that have propelled me to become the artist --and person that I am.

I was an athlete. In everyone's minds that's where my life was going--athletics. When I was in eighth grade, I engraved it in my head that I needed to be good enough to get a scholarship for college--at softball. In sophomore year, I sat down with a recruiter and discussed how to reach college coaches. And by junior year, I was no longer focused on softball--but rather field hockey--another sport. I hadn't given myself a chance to TRY anything else. Being an athlete was all I knew. My life revolved around the emotion of the final game of a season--statistics--and morning runs. I knew nothing else--and my heart yearned for me to be trying EVERYTHING. I got a glimpse of what my heart was truly yearning for when I auditioned for class speaker, and won a vote to speak at my high school graduation. I compared high school to coffee--my inner art was screaming to get out, but again the wall built itself up. But my heart was yearning to be on a stage--somewhere--talking to people--laughing with people--performing. My head won this game. But I don't regret it.

What better way to get comfortable speaking and performing in front of people than playing sports--where you are put on display for people during every practice and during every game--choreographing just like a dancer how you'll dodge, move, and drive toward the goal. What better way to learn about performing in front of people than when you don't have time to worry about what people on the outside are thinking of you. It's just you and your teammates. It's because of those teammates--those coaches--those support systems--that I can perform. Here's to you.

Additionally I was always one to quote underdog movies: and prove that I should be on that field through my drive and my passion for wanting to be there for my teammates--for wanting to be a pillar to the foundation of a group of girls who meant the world to me. Through my teammates--through my coaches--through those support systems--through wanting to be there for people--who were always there for me--I found passion. Here's to you. My team.


When I moved to New York City, life changed. I met hundreds of people who were all part of team-dream (haha). I met hundreds of people who were following their passions. I met hundreds of people who made me realize that I could do the same. I met people who invited me to their shows--who asked me to watch them do their art--who showed me WHO THEY WERE. I met comics--and actors--and singers--and aspiring novelists. I met my acting class--I met my new mentors. I met people who were okay with being THEM--I met people who showed me that it's okay to be ME. These people are part of my team--these people are part of me. Here's to you--my team.

That's what life is about to me--the passion to perform--and the inherit pleasure in being part of a team--an endless team of people that are constantly making moves that in turn allow me to make my own. A team that often is off on their own, performing on stage, singing, dancing, playing and dreaming--a team that is inspiring me. I consider the world my team: My friends--my old teammates--my family--my new acquaintances--the faces of people who don't look back--the faces of people who worry, but push through--the faces of friends who pursue their dreams. You are all my team---Whoever you are--wherever you are--whether I met you in passing--or I spend time with you on a consistent basis--whether I read your blog--or followed your Twitter--I admire you--and I am inspired by you. I am me because of my team--This team. I am me because of  you.

                                                           "Your art truly matters. It's what got me here."

Mi Amore

Translated to English, this means my love. But most people probably know that. Love has this way of being a universal language. So when I say "love" or "amore" I know a lot of people are tuning in. I try to avoid writing about love--I often think I am too young to know what it really is, and that I am too far past my angsty years to write a post that stares it in the face and analyzes it.

.Love is a difficult thing. Even LIKE is a difficult thing.

A friend of mine and I recently tried to analyze our future by the first letters of names of boys we have dated. We laughed trying to figure out which letters would eventually form the U and I in our lives.

But what I am starting to see, learn, and understand about love is that it's not as predictable as the alphabet is--that it's not as easy as A-B-C-D. Love is not the D after C. It is not the Z after Y. It's the confusion of the "next time won't you play with me."

Love is like trying to figure out which way is north, south, east, and west, when you walk out into a dark night with no stars in sight.

Love is an expression--a feeling--a deeper part of us. It is what we say we feel for our family, our friends, and what we search for in a soul mate. It is what we believe the sole purpose of existence has come to be: "To find love--and to be loved in return," (Moulin Rouge). It's not in people, it's in passion. It's in all.

It doesn't have to be romantic, it just has to be sincere.

Sometimes we just need to believe that love is out there. Sometimes we just have to believe that love will find us--all the while we find it. We have to believe that love is out there--that it can be easy--and less difficult--that it can be worth all the waiting. Sometimes we just all need a little love.

And sometimes we will find love...in the crooks, crannies, and nooks of our city streets, boulevards, and subway trains. In the crevice of a booth at our favorite cafe, or in the bottom of a grocery cart we've chosen to use today. Sometimes we need to just have love find us.

I believe in love. With every part of my heart. Do you?

P.S. Check out www.moreloveletters.com if you are in the need for some serious love right now or want to send love to someone. It's kind of like Post Secret--only...Better.

What are you doing this Valentine's day...and every day? 21 Suggestions

1. Write a letter. Handwritten. Sure it says you may not love the earth for the tree killed for that sheet of paper—but handwritten letters are the most wonderful thing to receive in the mail---ever.

2. Carve a heart into a tree and then have a picnic next to it.

3. Send a squillo—In Florence that means to dial someone’s phone and hang up after a ring or too. It really means “I am thinking of you”

4. Create a scavenger hunt with puzzle pieces…each puzzle piece the person finds along the way can be used at the end to create a personally made puzzle.

5. Make a mix-tape of all the songs that make you think of the person and give it to them…(Side note on this one—remember just because you think of the person when you hear these songs, doesn’t mean they think of you… haha just kidding J )

6. Send a shoutout over the radio by dedicating a song to the person…D-E-L-I-L-A-H

7. Send a messenger by horse—like the middle ages-- with a very important message to the doorstep of the person. It could be as simple as a sheet of paper that says “I Love You”

8. Have warm blankets and the fireplace heated up before she even arrives so that she doesn’t have to shiver an ounce

9. Shape whatever you cook for dinner in a heart shape

10. Send flowers on a day that isn’t a holiday.

11. Recreate the first night you met (if it was a good night)

12. Play card game of war but rig the game so that one of the heart cards that the person puts down says “I love you.”

13. For Valentine’s Day (If you believe in that sort of thing) Put all the hearts from several deck of cards as a path from the front door to a the rest of the cards placed strategically to say “Thinking of you,” “I Love you,” “Or Be Mine”

14. Leave a post-it note on the Mirror in the morning for your significant other that tells them how beautiful they look

15. No matter how corny it gets, or sounds, pull “A Walk to Remember” and buy your significant other a star…then go gaze at it.

16. When they wake up the morning after a long day at work, have breakfast waiting for them—eggs in a shape of a heart… maybe?

17. Save all the receipts/movie tickets/things from events you do together and create a collage of them that spell out “Love”

18. Take photos of words on billboards that make you think of the person and collage them together.

19. If they receive a newspaper every morning, write a note in chalk underneath there where they pick up the paper on the ground that says love you. (Make sure you sign it—or your girly girl might think the paper boy has a thing for her).

20. Take pictures of the most stunning things in the world---most beautiful things—or cut them out of magazines---and put them into a book. On the first page write: These are the most beautiful things in the world. And On the last page, write: But none of them compares to you.

21. Hold their hand and simply say.: I . Love . You

Why we keep in touch--Happy Holidays

A week ago, walking around Rome, I said to myself, “Thank goodness I have kept in touch with so many people in my life…For if it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have had a place to live in Rome for the month of December, I wouldn’t have made the connections here that I have made, and I wouldn’t have followed through with making a leap to another country.”

And then last night I received the two most wonderful Christmas gifts that were wrapped up in words as a Facebook notification. “Sam Ojih tagged you in a video” “Hannah Brencher posted a video on your wall.” Sam and Hannah are friends that I have made only recently—and when I say recently, I mean not within a year, but within the last six months. They are two people that I have shared passions and hopes and dreams with. They are people who aspired to go to New York City. They are people who I have come to love dearly, and they are the two people who have made my Christmas away from home even extra special this year…they are the two people who this week have made me realize why keeping in touch is so important, even if you haven’t known people for all that long.

They both left me words of encouragement, words of thankfulness, words of love for the holidays, words of memories, words of what I can only call gratefulness and wonderfulness. They left me messages that I will carry with me this holiday season and that I will be able to go back to endlessly. Their words won’t be taped up to the wall above my pillow—but rather taped to the wall of my Facebook for me to return to again and again. Their gifts are timeless.

And I think that’s what the holiday season is about—giving people something timeless, something they can go back to, something they can read or watch or see over and over again that will make them smile—or cry (tears of joy in this case). The holiday season may be built up in every place in the world around the chaos of Christmas festivals and gift exchanges, but I think it is about much more than that—much more than bows and ribbons—much more than candy canes and Old St. Nick—much more than the physical things that we can hold in our hands. It’s about what we can hold in our hearts and what we can put in the hearts of others. It’s about reaching out to someone whose hand we may not physically be able to curl our fingers between but who we can touch in some other way.

Maybe we haven’t spoken to a good friend in a year…two years…or five years. Maybe a sibling has gone astray—or we have lost the ability to get along with our parents, our exes, or our childhood enemies. But I can assure you that keeping in touch—or—getting back in touch—could be one of the best gifts you wrap up with your heart this year…It could get someone through a holiday…It could get someone through it all.

Di Dove Sei? (Where are you from?

“The city of big buildings and bright lights. The city that never sleeps. Good Old New York City,” I say cheerfully to the paper boy who has just asked me the most asked question of all, here in Italy, “Di dove sei,” (where are you from?).

I suddenly want to retract my statements, and put a “But I grew up in Pennsylvania, and lived there for a majority of my life.” But somehow saying New York City seems so much more fun and interesting, and it rolls off my tongue much more quickly and simply. I think deep inside, I truly believe I was meant to be a New Yorker my whole life, to be someone full of adventure and attitude, to be someone who could get through a crowded Times Square without slamming into a single person, to be someone who could walk from Astoria, Queens to lower Manhattan without wincing, to be a true city girl. I think I knew this the first time I came to Italy, when I realized how much I loved Rome and the big, nonstop city atmosphere. As an overwhelming person myself, an overwhelming place to live seems to be a perfect match. “I am from New York City,” I continue to think to myself.

But I am not, and it is crazy to me how nine months in New York City can make me believe I am. In four years of living in Rhode Island, I never once referred to it as my home, and I never once believed it was where I was from. And it never was where I was from.

I deserve a slap on my wrist for forgetting my roots when I told Giuseppe, my new favorite paper boy, who stands in Piazza Della Repubblica every morning, that I was from New York City.

I am a Pennsylvanian. I live near the Amish. I live an hour north of the cheese steak capital of the world. And I couldn’t be more proud of my family or friends that have come from there. But when you start traveling as many times as you buy new shoes, it gets more difficult to remember the last place you occupied, the last place that was your true home

So what makes somewhere HOME? Is it your family? Is it your friends? Is it where you grew up most of your life? Is it where you went to high school? Is it where you went to college? Is it your address? Is it where you have your bank statements set? Or is it where you feel most comfortable, most happy, most lovely, most simple. I want to believe that it’s where you feel most happy, most lovely, most simple. I want to believe that home is what you make it. I want to believe that when I am telling someone I am from New York City, that I am telling them really where I am from.

But I think New York City will soon be just a memory of where I am from. Because if home is really where the heart is, then I am starting to believe that Italy is my home—because I don’t think my heart will ever leave. So when the next Giuseppe asks where I am from, well I think I have a new answer. I am from Italy…and when that next Giuseppe looks at me like I have ten heads, I think I’ll laugh to myself and say, “I just need to say that in Italian next time.”

Come Se Dice Ti Amo in Inglese?

“I love you” Three simple words in English that mean so many complex things. Eight letters that we Americans piece together.

I. Love. You.

And in America, we take those eight letters more seriously than many people have taken the many letters and words in our declarations and our commandments that represent our beliefs in our country and our religions. These eight letters can move mountains for us Americans, they can break a person’s heart, and they can be engraved on one’s soul forever. Eight letters…three words…that take on so much more meaning than the one thousand something words in the Declaration of Independence. (Man if Benjamin Franklin knew he only needed eight letters to change the world, imagine what he’d come up with…. “Peace Man.” Franklin and the delegates definitely got it wrong in the book of ways to change America).

After my second day in Florence, I got to thinking about those three small words comprised of eight letters. I had made a new friend earlier in the day who only spoke Italian. He was from Kosovo and had been living here in Italy for six years. After speaking earlier in the day at the Duomo, we made plans to meet up later for a short bit, because I wanted to learn Italian and he wanted to learn English. For a few hours, we walked, talking in broken Italian. For the most part I said, “No lo so” and he giggled at my stupidity. It reminded me of my nights in Rome trying to talk to my good friend Nino when he went off on Italian rants. It was quite amusing to hear me try to speak perfect Italian. But with my attempts to speak Italian and my new friend’s, who we will call F, attempts to learn English, (which made me hopeful as he learned quickly from my teaching) we were able to both laugh. But I definitely got the last one when he asked me one last question in Italian. “Come se dice ti amo in inglese?” I laughed and told him that “ti amo in inglese e “I love you.” He then spoke those eight letters, those three complex American words to me…”I love you.”

I always thought that the first time a guy said “I love you to me” he would understand all the complexities that came with it and the strength that those words have to take a girls heart twist it into a million un-fixable knots, but this was not the case.

Those eight letters…those three words…now took on a completely different meaning. They were not his way of expressing his deepest most sincere feelings. They were his way of expressing our new found friendship on the streets of Florence. As I tried to explain in rough Italian what I Love you meant in America, I realized that it was much more easy believing what F thought I love you meant, much less complex—so I let it go and gave him a giant Italian hug goodnight.

It was in that moment, that suddenly “I love you” went from being complicated to being completely platonically simple—From a mess of meaning to a perfect lovely moment—a lovely moment where I realized that there was love in the air in Tuscany—a whole lot of simple, delightful, wonderful love. So much that I think tomorrow I’ll spread some more...and then the next day as well, and the day after that--until Tuscany is smothered in it and covered like grafitti with those three perfectly lovely simple words… I. and Love. and You.

Just not a material girl in a material world...

When I was younger, I was terrified of the dark. Two or three nights a week I would sleep with the lights on, the door open, and a big old blanket wrapped around my body. I’d wait for my parents to go to sleep and I’d slowly get up from my bed and creep out of my room to make sure nothing was in the hallway. Some nights I’d go downstairs and turn on the television for a bit until I felt really safe, and some nights I just fell asleep. If I had a bad dream, and the lights were off, I would cover my face, remain motionless, and silently listen to the things that went bump in the night.

When I did convince myself that it was okay to turn off the light during the night, I’d imagine shadows on the wall were people sneaking into my house to kidnap me or my family or steal all of my belongings. For me a shadow on a white wall was like a cloud in the sky—it had the ability to deceive me into thinking it was something else. The shadows would take the forms of creatures in the night haunting me until my eyes got too tired to recognize their shapes anymore—or until 4:00am.

4:00am is what I call the safe zone. It’s the time when I have convinced myself that bad guys don’t prowl the streets and the time that the world—in my time zone—is in a safety bubble.

So when I woke up at 5am on my final morning in New York City, I was ready to walk out to my car to embark on my new journey. I headed down the third floor walk up of an apartment I had slept at in the Bronx, opened the door laughing as I said goodbye to a friend and slowly realized that things from my car were sitting on the ground. It was past 4am and I suddenly felt as if the safe bubble had popped and covered me in a terribly gewy mess. My car had been broken into via a back smashed passenger window.

I stood there trying to take in that most of my belongings, except my clothes, were stolen, and nearly fell over in disbelief.

I walked back into the apartment, unready and unwilling to face the fact that my car had just been ransacked for everything that had some significant money value to it. As my friend woke my best friend up to come down to me, all I could think was that I was stuck in a bad dream. I attempted to use the power of Inception (Gosh LEO you made it seem like it was so easy to do in the movie) to stop the terrible nightmare and make the shadows of broken glass and unlocked doors disappear. I stood motionless, wishing I had a blanket to cover my face so I could take in all the bumps in the night around me. Only I wasn’t stuck in my 10 foot by 10 foot room imagining that terrible things were happening in the darkness—terrible things DID happen in the darkness.

Now a little less groggy, I was slowly putting together that my external hard drive, my flip camera, my camera memory cards, and my iPod had been stolen, on top of a number of other things.

As I wrote down the list of items I was missing, I stared at them thinking: “This could be a hell of a lot worse.” All I could say to myself and to my friends were “They are just replaceable accessories Libs—just disposable items, just things that I really wanted—but never really NEEDED. After forty-five minutes to an hour of putting myself back together and forcing through strong reluctant feelings of guilt, I motivated myself to get back into my car and drive home—the final trip I was supposed to make from New York City to Pennsylvania for the next eight months.

I kept repeating to myself “They are just accessories Libs…just accessories.” And while it’s hard for me to imagine the fact that I will never get my videos, pictures, or songs back—there’s something even more valuable to me that this person took…something so precious that annoys me more than someone taking the last cookie from the jar…and that’s time.

Time to prepare for Italy, time to relax with my family, time to cuddle with my cat, time to work on various projects that I have in the works, and time to just get the things done that I absolutely need to get done. Time—something that I could not physically hold in my hands…something more valuable than any of the things in my car…something that isn’t buyable—that isn’t replaceable. And then I started remembering other things that were important to me that weren't in that car--like my memories, and my passions, and my hopes, and my love for the city of New York.

My epiphany came sometime around the moment the sunrise was sitting perfectly in my rear view mirror, almost like a cleverly plotted detail in a film. It was in that moment that I realized that the items we can hold are seldom the items that truly matter the most in the end. If it fits in the palms of our hands—then it can probably never truly fit in our hearts.

Often times we give in easily to the material things around us: the iPods, the Nooks, the makeup, the ugz, the smart phones, the cameras, the stiletto heels, the perfect Halloween costume, and the many other individual things that we always think we need.

But maybe it takes someone stealing your “valuables” to truly see what is of value in your life…to really understand how material you may have become, and how immaterial you wish you could be. You may have taken my hard-drive Mr. Bronx Robber, but you didn’t steal my heart—in fact, I think you may have just made it a little bigger.