POV ("point of view") is a series that addresses many of the same themes covered in my Equals Record column: growing up, saying yes to adventure, learning to embrace a quarter-life crisis. Each POV entry will include a photograph and a short reflection based on what’s pictured. While my previous column focused largely on ideas, POV focuses on moments - glimpses, glances, tiny stories.
In the winter, when night came at five PM and polar conditions made city adventuring treacherous, my roommate Lily and I made a routine of starting our days in darkness. We’d wake up at six and meet for coffee at our dining table, where we’d plug in our laptops and work til nine. As freelancers accustomed to working from coffee shops, we spent most mornings hiding from the cold, absorbing silence and watching the sun rise over the Williamsburg Bridge.
Of impending romance, Anais Nin once wrote: “I had a sense of preparation of a love to come. Like the extension of canopies, the unrolling of ceremonial carpets, as if I must first create a marvelous world in which to house it, in which to receive adequately this guest of honor.”
I feel this way sometimes, and I know my friends do, too, when it comes to pursuing the lives we dream of. Since there are no guarantees and no guidebook for risk-taking, it sometimes feels like the only thing to do is put the pieces in place and remain hopeful. Everything feels like a step as we ready ourselves for what’s to come; we’re laying bricks and planting seeds, trying to build marvelous worlds.
It’s scary. It’s thrilling. I know above all, we feel lucky.
So we work in the dark. We wait. We sweep the floors, we tidy our rooms. We dream, we make things, we watch - patiently, if we can - for signs of growth.