A Perfect Mess
Mary Karr
For David Freedman
I read somewhere
that if pedestrians didn’t break traffic laws to cross
Times Square whenever and by whatever means possible,
the whole city
would stop, it would stop.
Cars would back up to Rhode Island,
an epic gridlock not even a cat
could thread through. It’s not law but the sprawl
of our separate wills that keeps us all flowing. Today I
loved
the unprecedented gall
of the piano movers, shoving a roped-up baby grand
up Ninth Avenue before a thunderstorm.
They were a grim and hefty pair, cynical
as any day laborers. They knew what was coming,
the instrument white lacquered, the sky bulging black
as a bad water balloon and in one pinprick instant
it burst. A downpour like a fire hose.
For a few heartbeats, the whole city stalled,
paused, a heart thump, then it all went staccato.
And it was my pleasure to witness a not
insignificant miracle: in one instant every black
umbrella in Hell’s Kitchen opened on cue, everyone
still moving. It was a scene from an unwritten opera,
the sails of some vast armada.
And four old ladies interrupted their own slow progress
to accompany the piano movers.
each holding what might have once been
lace parasols over the grunting men. I passed next
the crowd of pastel ballerinas huddled
under the corner awning,
in line for an open call — stork-limbed, ankles
zigzagged with ribbon, a few passing a lit cigarette
around. The city feeds on beauty, starves
for it, breeds it. Coming home after midnight,
to my deserted block with its famously high
subway-rat count, I heard a tenor exhale pure
longing down the brick canyons, the steaming moon
opened its mouth to drink from on high ...
I couldn’t believe that I ran into this poem today just like
the time my husband and I ran into the oldest pub in London late one damp evening
last fall. We were hungry and finding few options only to happen upon this
little gem with the best table in the house just welcoming us right next to a
blazing fire. Serendipity in a trip full of serendipity. I have been reading Mary
Karr’s The Art of Memoir as well as thinking about NYC once again under siege
but resilient, wondering how I will find the city changed when I next wander
the streets of Manhattan. NYC is messy, always has been and always will be and
Karr reminds me that there is beauty in the mess. Like all the most important
things in life, I just have to pay attention to see it in the teeming tide of
humanity.
Life is messy perhaps never more so than right now. I only
have to look within the confines of this home, more than amply spacious but being
put to use in more ways than usual these days. Every table has been designated for
a different station of activity. The dining room table has two puzzles
underway. The living room cocktail table is set aside for games with favorites
stacked high on the rug within easy reach. You will find stacks of clean,
folded clothing on the den cocktail table and cushions from the deck chairs hastily
thrown on the den’s side table as dark clouds forewarned of an imminent soaking.
I try to clear the kitchen island each day to keep it open
for cooking and baking as we have all found great enjoyment in the culinary
arts. Still, dishes and food populate the counters, fill the sink, and
eventually find their way into the dishwasher. The family wanders in and out of
the kitchen all day long for coffee or snacks or lunch as we move through the
day on our own schedules back and forth to the only surfaces in the house that
remain uncluttered for the official work demanded by our jobs and schools – our
desks. Most importantly, we rotate dinner responsibilities and then meet at the
kitchen table to eat dinner as a family, sharing the events of our days just a
room or floor away yet strewn with news worth discussing and oftentimes deep
questions worth contemplating.
Outside, the neighbor has been cutting down trees again, an
attempt to control the mess of nature and cultivate a manicured lawn. I see
nature under siege and sanitized; she sees beauty and control. What folly.
Nature refuses to be controlled, and our attempts usually lead to considerable
damage, because we fail to understand the intricacies of the natural world from
the smallest microbe to the immense oak that towers over the front lawn, endlessly
dropping leaves and branches and acorns. I learned in detail from Doug Tallamy’s
book Nature’s Best Hope that it is precisely this mess that connects the
oak to the top and bottom of the food chain and makes it one of the most important
living things east of the Mississippi. I embrace nature’s perfect mess right
outside my front door. Serendipity once again.
I am happy wading into life’s messiness. Messiness keeps
life interesting. It reminds us that the pursuit of perfection is folly. Yes, growth
happens in the midst of the grittiness of a mess. Messes challenge us, engage
us, change us. Messes may arise from brilliance or shortcomings, eliciting
wonder and joy or anger and sorrow. Life would certainly be bland and boring without
them. Even the mess of this pandemic is fertile soil for learning and meaning.
I am reminded of the Buddhist saying that life is 10,000 joys and 10,000
sorrows – a perfect mess sprinkled with serendipity, if we are wise enough to
look for it.
