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.

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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.

Stay awhile--watch the sun go down...

Copyright: Libby Segal All Rights Reserved 2012

The sky reflects pink and the city's stunning skyline echos brightly below.

The wooden planks rattle as bikes roll across. The wind blows my hair into my face. 

I look up at the arches of the bridge and imagine that if there is a heaven, these must be what the gates look like. 

Copyright: Libby Segal All Rights Reserved 2012

As the sunset on summer approaches, I take a breath and begin to reminisce on the times that have resonated these last few months. What a beautiful--delightful summer it has been. 

Copyright: Libby Segal All Rights Reserved 2012

I've had a lot of favorite moments this summer--from stunt jumping, to taking on a new job, to my acting classes, to buying my new bicycle--but none stands out more than one particular night that reminded me to stop rushing--actually--one particular night that reminded me to just stop at all. 

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On July 5th, even time began to stand still. Walking through Brooklyn Bridge Park, I felt at home. I always feel at home in New York City--but this time felt different. Much of this had to do with the epic view of the most beautiful bridge in the city, but a lot of it also had to do with the company I was in--someone who knows a lot about enjoying and living in the present moment.

As we continued along our walk, we stumbled upon a free screening of E.T. We stood wondering if we should stay--or we should go. Many times--in this world--people to leave, to say "I'll do that one day--but not today." However, on this night we opted to stop--we opted to stay.

That night, following the film, my friend sent me a note about the "stopping" experience--the lesson learned:

"Because we know that we have grown accustomed to moving too fast--when we want to leave something because we think we don't have time--just wait a little longer...Even if you need to lay down and take a couple deep breaths." - Rachael C. Smith

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The rattle of wooden planks brings me back to the current moment--here, and now, where I am sitting on a steel beam that separates the pedestrian area from the traffic below.

I watch the clouds turn back to white from their pink, and the sky glows a mix of purple and blue.

Copyright: Libby Segal All Rights Reserved 2012

Stay awhile-watch the sun go down-even a big city has the warmth of your favorite small town. 

I opt to stay and take a few deep breaths. I am present. I am home. 

Copyright: Libby Segal All Rights Reserved 2012

In Transit

The wheels churn. I feel my body begin to vibrate. I hear a cry for money from the same unshaven man--who tries to sell newspapers, each night to support his family.

I hum along and nod my head to someone's iPod that is on just a little bit too loud. One of my favorites is playing. I smile.

I smell a mix of cologne, perfumes, and morning cups of Joe.

I lick my lips and pop a piece of gum in my mouth.

And I watch.

I watch the women with strollers. I watch the hipsters who swear they aren’t hipsters. I watch as people laugh. I watch as people read. I watch as people watch—people.

My favorite place in New York City, I imagine, differs from many other people’s favorite places. I love the New York City subway: the energy of the subway stations on a day where the train schedules run just right (which as rare as it is—is always a treat); the upbeat drummer on the L train platform at 14^th and 6^th Avenue; the break-dancers on the upper platform of the Union Square Station; the guitarists trying to make it; the smiling mariachi band; and of course the ride—one that’s always unique and it’s own.

I love the people—the performers—the beggars—the readers—the conductors—the families—the diversity.

I love the way the wheels rattle and seem to synchronize with the beat of my heart—and that bassy hum that accompanies.

I love the opportunities for shared moments—glances—eye contact—giggles—the chances for true, pure human interaction with complete strangers.

I love watching people—and writing stories—creating alternate worlds where I know the families and lives of each of these straphangers.

And I love the alone time.

I love sitting with myself; I love disappearing into my music or a book or my writing; I love the morning meditation—the evening energy escaping my limbs as I lean my head back; I love feeling so private yet in such a public space. I love this shot at being a fly on the wall—at taking it all in—at observing—at breathing.

I often miss my stops. It’s okay, I am the earliest person you will ever meet, on most occasions—and I know the subway like a doctor knows the veins that run through a body. This is part of my home.

The doors open—the doors shut. I don’t actually notice. I am enthralled in my thoughts—my ideas—the people that I am seeing. I feel myself breathe. I love this. I am in transit.

I believe in you. I believe in I. I believe in us.

"I got off the train and the only person I wanted to see was you."

I thought about sending this to a good friend one day, but somehow I am sure that person already knew. Because it's that one person that we all have but may not have found just yet.

A soulmate.

I believe in love. I believe in you. I believe in I. I believe in you and I. I believe in soul mates.

I believe that a soulmate comes in all shapes, in all sizes, in all genders, in all ages--that a soulmate is not necessarily the person you feel so deeply connected in and routed to in a sexual way--though it could be--but most definitely in a way in which you feel a deeper connection spiritually. A connection that helps one to see the true size--the true spirit that resides within.

I believe that TV and magazines sell us false images of a soulmate as the person we marry--or fall deeply in love with. And while it may be true--I'll never be convinced it is, because often this attraction we have--becomes a de-attraction after days, weeks, months, years of dating--or even marriage--and then we are off soul searching again.

I know. I am 24--what the F do I know about soul searching and soul mates and life. I'd like to say a lot. I am living this life, so I hope I know something.

I believe that we all have magic powers--a sixth sense--that is ignited when that one person--that soulmate--finds their way to us--or we find our way to them.

I believe that what we can tap into with human interaction--at all--soulmate or not--is of such magnitude that we have yet to see the results--and that if every person found their true living soulmate--that the power of this world and of our existence would only intensify at speeds greater than we could even imagine.

I owe Marina Abramovic a lot for my deeper thinking here--I guess. While not my soulmate, she has captured a bit of my soul. She's an extraordinary woman and artist--who created an exhibit that called for interaction at the deepest level possible. (The Artist is Present)

No--not sex.

No--not speaking

Yes--sitting idle, face to face--eye to eye without words. 

It is in the moments of silence--the moments of looking into a person's eyes--the moments of taking all attention off yourself and putting it on another person--that I believe we can truly find that soulmate--that one person that just by existing--no matter the the proximity or distance--makes us a better person.

And above all, I believe the force between these two souls that have somehow managed to find one another in this beautiful chaos comprised of billions of people--can forever change the world.

I believe in you. I believe in I. I believe in us.

And that's a lot to believe in.

yearSelf

“Who knows where life will take you, the road is long, and in the end... the journey is the destination.” – One Tree Hill

My sunglasses are down, the roof of the car is open and all there is ahead of me are two lanes divided by a double yellow line. This is a sort of freedom that I've come to know really well this year...

I look to my left- I look to my right. I check my mirrors and I smile. An Usher song is blasting but because of the wind, I can barely hear more than a bassy beat echoing through the car. I love it: the disorientation, my hair blowing from side to side. I feel my hamstrings begin to sweat from the humidity that is inescapable. I check myself out again (hehe), and I think about how I got here-to Houston- in August- in this mustang convertible.

This is pretty amazing.

I decide that I got here by focusing on what I call “yearSelf”-- yes “yearSelf”. Many people have often said to, "focus on yourself more Libs" so I made "yourself" into a yearlong quest. A yearlong open road with, a yearlong road trip—where I am always in the driver’s seat, only envisioning one lane—the one that goes forward, rather than back.

A lot’s happened this year—but to look back on it—to be nostalgic about it—would be a bit hypocritical of that last line. But sometimes, in writing, it’s okay to be a bit hypocritical—and why? Because in writing, we can make our own rules (and why? Because I said so). So here goes:

I started taking acting classes in January and made an incredible group of friends that I now consider family.

I took up a yearlong challenge to try one new thing a week—starting in February, that I pre-conceived in January.

I’ve dated—and had a break up.

I’ve called home more.

I've worn bright colors (and yes this makes a huge difference in life)

I’ve ran my second half-marathon—this time with a good friend.

I’ve meditated.

I’ve written more.

I’ve taken time for me.

I’ve had dizzying discoveries, and beaming break-throughs.

I quit my job in July.

I took a freelance job in August.

And it’s ONLY August.

That’s how I got here. To this moment. In this white mustang convertible, that we’ve rented for work. That’s how I got here—to this open road ahead, both literally and metaphorically. And I’m not so worried about any forks, because I’ve made some tough decisions this year too. Ones that I have yet to regret—and don’t for-see regretting anytime soon or ever--cause *Life is too short to have regrets.*

But the only decision that’s mattered—truly mattered, is the one where I decided to take the year—to focus on myself. To make 2012, my open road—my metaphorical road trip—my journey--my “yearSelf.”

I challenge you to take one of these yourself—without any destination in mind—because really—the only destination—is the journey.

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.