Behind the scrim

On this side is home. On the other is the world.

Gentle morning light bathes me through the sheer white curtain covering the window against which my desk sits. On this side of the window is home, this modest space that is the entire world we have created together. That sheer curtain is all that shields me from what is on the other side of the window: New York City. Noise, people, chaos, life. The entire world I love, and battle, every day.

I look out and from this height see only the tops of buildings, a water tower, and sky. It's easy to forget, up here in the soft quiet of this wood-paneled room, how much life is right down there. The city pulses, it throbs, with energy, excitement, frustration, and hope. Big dramas play out elsewhere while little dramas make theater of West Seventy-Fifth Street: a blocked lane, a joyous reunion, a young woman racing to catch the subway.

Some days I disappear into the life of the street. Those days I delight to play my own part on that stage. Today I am content behind the white scrim, pleased to inhabit the world in three rooms I created with him. Today the soft light coming through is enough.