Balancing King Winter in Brooklyn

Now that winter is upon us, we must learn to tell the truth. Instead of a still photo shot of rain falling onto a green bush of ivy, winter in Brooklyn pushes us inward forcing us to have a reckoning with ourselves. In the bustle of the holiday season, in the line at the grocery store putting the pine scented hand soap on the belt, we search for the voice of stillness. We search for balance as the cold creeps in. Are we ready for it?

I spent most of the fall this year watching young vloggers on YouTube talk about how to be more autumnal. There’s one girl who looks like Anne of Green Gables and suggests cozy hot chocolate, walks at dusk, and crafting pumpkins out of yarn. The visuals in these videos are awe-inspiring. 

There always seems to be a stark white background with the dash of a red scarf, or a close-up of an antique stovetop with a bright orange tea kettle whistling upon the burner. There is often butter being spread daintily across homemade toasted sourdough, the crusts flaky and powdery, and perfect. While all these moments are stunning examples of artistic cottage core creations, they are nothing like my life here in Brooklyn. Now that winter is upon us, we must learn to tell the truth. Instead of a still photo shot of rain falling onto a green bush of ivy, winter in Brooklyn pushes us inward forcing us to have a reckoning with ourselves. In the bustle of the holiday season, in the line at the grocery store putting the pine scented hand soap on the belt, we search for the voice of stillness. We search for balance as the cold creeps in. Are we ready for it?

Brooklyn is breathtaking. Nobody needs video as proof. Still, I watch the red-haired girl through my phone screen encourage me to decorate my surroundings. This week it’s

“The 10 best Books to read When It Snows” and “How To Make a Cozy Reading Nook.” I click off the video just as an advertisement for “Virtual Therapy” pops up interrupting the crisp winter ambiance, and intruding on my brain just in time so that I decide against buying the bookshelf candle sticks at Michael’s Crafts. I look out the window at my Brooklyn, the borough of nostalgia. What does Brooklyn have to teach us this year? As wars rage across the world, as conflicts arise in our own homes, schools, and neighborhoods. What does our borough murmur to us in the winter?

“Hi, how can I help you?” The barista with the brown sweater and man-bun reaches across the counter to serve the latte he has just made to a woman holding a Pomeranian in a fuchsia sweater.

“Just a chai latte if you have one? With oat milk?” I’ve started asking questions instead of making statements.

“Sure thing, will you be staying or going?” he turns to where the cups are.

“I was hoping to stay?” Again, with the questions.

“Great!” He reaches for a brown ceramic coffee mug, deep like a well. I’m hoping to sit in the warmth for a while. For an instant he looks like a boy I dated a long time ago. The one with the tattoos who walked me across the Brooklyn Bridge one night and stopped before Manhattan to recite Hart Crane.

“It’s freezing out,” I reach for my phone trying to open Apple Pay, hoping my phone will recognize my face so I can pay through the scanner and not have to make more small talk with my non-ex-boyfriend who looks like my ex-boyfriend. The phone takes a while to work. Maybe my phone thinks I’m ugly. Maybe I’m ugly. The new face icon that pops up when it’s trying to recognize me does seem like it’s laughing in my direction. 

“I know!,” The barista has started foaming and the woman with the Pomeranian is sitting in the window, her dog in her lap. “Yesterday was warmer, I went to the park after work and took a nice walk.”

“That’s nice, I didn’t know people did that anymore.”

“What?” He stops foaming for a minute, confused, “Walk?”

“Yeah,” I laugh, and he’s still bewildered. My middle-aged bitterness is showing. I think for a minute of the YouTube vlogger demonstrating to her viewers how to hang dead leaves from the doorway giving it a “Victorian feel”. Across the street a woman in a long navy puffer coat waves to someone out of sight. The brownstones look like someone sketched them into a children’s book. Magical.

“Here you are,” my not-ex-boyfriend puts the latte down. The saucer has black speckles, and the smell of cloves wafts up from the mug. 

“Thanks so much?” I’m still asking questions. It’s maddening. The computer finally takes my Apple Pay and the man-bun barista smiles a wicked grin. 

“Enjoy,” his white teeth gleam as sun pours into the front windows.

Today I get to sit in a café in Park Slope. I’m not sure how this happened. Two of my children are already in school, the baby is at home with my husband, and I am early for a school event. Later today my children will be singing songs that I have heard them belt out all weekend. It’s Monday and I have a chronic cough because one of the children sneezed directly into my eye at some point over the weekend. I’m exhausted…all the time. All. The. Time. Yesterday I did at-home yoga, laundry, shopping, crafts, and I tried to write. I fell asleep reading on the kindle, but not before I gave myself a black eye by holding my phone above my head and dropping it on my face because I was so fatigued. I’m wondering which parent at the school event will ask me at full volume, “Oh my goodness, what happened?!?!?” Please lord no, not the lady with the skinny jeans and the fuzzy Marc Jacobs flats, please anyone but her.

I should be ecstatic that I have alone time in a café. I should be soaking it all in. There’s a gorgeous barista to admire, the weather is cold yet charming. The brownstones stand poetic, the neighbors smile. And still, I’m balancing. How do I balance? How do I tell the truth? If I told the truth I wouldn’t form my requests into questions when ordering my beverages. If I were honest, I would crumple like a paper bag. If I’m truthful, this is alright. It’s acceptable to crumple. Am I ready for this Brooklyn winter?

“I don’t know, I just don’t know,” a couple has walked in. The woman is upset. Her partner is carrying a two-year-old. The baby has a rash on his cheeks from the cold.

“I just can’t do this every day, it’s too much, it’s just too much.” The woman, a blonde wispy thing, begins to cry and her partner orders two cappuccinos to stay. 

“Let’s just sit for a minute,” her partner, also blonde, also wispy, rubs her back, “We can take a minute to sit.”

“But I’ll be late!” the woman screeches, tears streaming now, her bangs falling in front of her eyes.

“We can sit, and you can be late and it will be ok.” The blonde wispy partner holds her hands.

“Will it? Will it be ok? I feel like I’m going insane.”

Same, girl, saaaaaaame. Now this is a conversation I can get on board with. I have this conversation daily! Sometimes I even cry in my head. 

“It will be,” her partner hugs her and the little boy puts his head on her shoulder.

The couple sits close by. The man-bun barista lets them know that he will bring the drinks over as he sees the woman’s distress, and he goes to his steaming station to begin his concoctions. I wonder if his skin is so smooth from all the steaming or if he has naturally great skin which makes me hate him a little. I pretend to look at my phone while really being engrossed in this snippet of life.

“I can’t balance it all,” the woman uses a rough brown napkin from the table to wipe her eyes and nose.

No one can balance it all. This is what the winter wants us to know.

“I just can’t balance it.” 

What I want is to sit with these people for a long time and talk about the overwhelming pressure of life, motherhood, just being a person and walking around. I want to treat them to chocolate croissants and then tell them we should all take the day off and go to a bookstore. Isn’t everyone just too tired to move? Is that just me? This woman looks too tired to move. I would like to tell her that I know and that I understand, I would like to listen. 

As the barista drops off the cappuccinos, his man-bun bouncing with each step, there is silence after the tears. After all the overwhelming emotions, all I can hear is the clinking of coffee mugs, a soft jazz tune on low, and the cooing of the baby – who is now sitting on the blonde wispy woman’s lap leaning into her, his winter garb making it difficult for him to move at all. I sit in silence for a long time near this couple. The fuchsia sweater Pomeranian and its owner leave first. At one point I stand up to side-eye the pastries.

“Anything to eat?” My man-bun barista offers pointing to the glass case on the counter.

“No?” I catch myself, “No. No thanks.”

I decide to take a walk in the cold. I can’t seem to sit still, and the wispy blonde woman and her wispy blonde partner are too still. They have stopped talking, comfortable in the silence shared by two people who know each other in their bones. It’s beautiful to see such closeness, and it’s lonely, and it’s lovely, and it’s painful. It’s everything all at once, and it’s too much.

King winter scoffs at me from the corner, beckoning me with an icy finger, begging me to play. I start to get up. I’m ready. I can do winter in Brooklyn; I’ve done it before.

“Thanks so much,” I wave to my not-really-ex-boyfriend who looks like my ex-boyfriend.

“Sure,” he is cleaning the counter with a pristine white rag. 

At the door I pass the couple and smile at the baby. Just as I am about to open the door to face the wind, I take a deep breath. And that’s when it happens. The baby, still bundled, still leaning against his mama, opens his mouth and says the thing we’re all thinking.

“Shiiiiiiiit.”

His wispy blonde mother looks up at her partner and then looks to the baby, “What honey?”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

“Did you teach her that?” the mother scowls putting her cappuccino down. 

“SHIT!” The word comes out like the kid is a plumber, with a sharp “I” sound right in the middle. I open the door, step outside just as I hear the mother say, “well this is JUST what I need right now, a cursing baby.”

Brooklyn asks me if I’m ready, and I laugh all the way through Park Slope, still balancing my life. Me: the elephant. Life: the tightrope. Always knowing which way is home, always carefully taking steps to get there. I can still hear that baby cursing in my mind when I reach my children’s event at their school. I can still hear the baby when everyone stares at the black eye I gave myself dropping my phone on my face. I make that baby’s word my mantra. I breathe it in. I say it out loud: Shit. Bring it on, Brooklyn, bring it on. θ