TAKE THIS LONGING

Wacky neighbors, Leonard Cohen, and songs as steadfast companions.

My first apartment was a studio in an old tenement building on West 19th Street. Ruth lived across the hall from me. She was in her eighties, and she never closed her door. She had lived there for over fifty years, her whole life packed tight around her, like the canned cat food she asked me to open every night. I’d come home from my day job at the museum, fumbling for my keys, and there was Ruth, in her bra and underwear, reading The New York Times, and waiting for me.

Even though Ruth’s door was always open, she never invited me inside, nor did I welcome her into my space. We had an unspoken agreement. First, I’d go into my apartment to get the can opener. Then I’d stand in the three feet of space between my door and hers to open the cans. More often than not, the senile old man from downstairs would yell up, “Coming and going, coming and going! I know what you’re up to!”

“He thinks you’re a prostitute, ha!” Ruth would say, as I handed her the cans. We both knew there was only one man coming and going, and that he wasn’t coming around anymore.

Photo by Nelson Ndongala on Unsplash

I often wondered why Ruth didn’t close her door. Looking back, I think she wanted me to know she was still alive. She’d say as much, muttering under her breath, “I’m still alive, I’m still alive,” like a mantra, as the cats circled her, and the TV responded back with static, or the evening news.

Another neighbor, Mr. Nelson, had died in his apartment. The smell was unmistakable, even though I had never smelled it before. I called the police that night, and they took him away, taping his door shut. Ruth wept, “I’m still alive, I’m still alive,” and I lit all the candles I could find. How else to honor a life?

Back then, I was longing for my life to really begin.

At night, I’d sit out on the fire escape in my nightgown and listen to Leonard Cohen’s New Skin for the Old Ceremony. That record was really interesting to me, especially the song “Take This Longing.” Just a few plucks of the guitar and Cohen gets right to it, both taking his time and packing so much into four minutes of song:

Just take this longing from my tongue
All the useless things my hands have done
Let me see your beauty broken down
Like you would do for one you love

At twenty-three, I hadn’t lived enough to have much longing on my tongue, though I desired quite a bit. I wanted to be a famous singer-songwriter, to find a new boyfriend, to buy the Dr. Hauschka Rose Body Lotion sold at the fancy pharmacy down the street. I’d pop in after work, pump a few drops into my hands when the cashier wasn’t looking, the scent of roses following me back out into the night.

All those things felt important.

Back at the apartment, after helping Ruth with the cats, I’d make my own dinner of scrambled eggs and toast, “Take This Longing” on repeat. I was starting to write my own songs, too. Songs were like puzzles, and sometimes I could make all the pieces fit, taking my findings down to a decrepit bar on Avenue C where I played my first shows.

It was the first time in my life I was really alone, no family, or boyfriend. I had the space to wonder — who was I, with my library books, my black dresses, my geraniums? Pacing the 600 square feet of my apartment, or up and down Eighth Avenue, past the Chelsea Hotel, I could feel my own “beauty broken down.” And I felt love for Ruth, as I dutifully opened her cat food, to the song’s refrain:

Like you would do for one you love.

I often wonder if I could have done more for her? Offered to get groceries, ask her about her life?

But I was coming and going, coming and going.

And now…

I’m forty-two. I no longer live in Manhattan. The Catskill Mountains loom large and blue to my right as I drive along the Hudson River to get my kids from school. Yesterday, “Take This Longing” came on shuffle and I wept. The space between waiting for my life to begin and having lived a little too much feels big and blue, like the mountains against which I mark my days.

I still want so much, though my longing now encompasses more than just my own desires. I long for my children’s safety, and for the safety of all children. Sometimes this longing is so heavy, the beauty of the world so broken down, I have to pull over to catch my breath, to take the longing from my tongue.

At night, when the house is finally quiet, I sit on my bed in my bra and underwear. I think of Ruth, of her wild, ancient body, and of what my own body has since endured. Children, a breast lost to cancer. I think of those long Chelsea nights, of having nothing to do, but everything to do. I think of Leonard Cohen. How his songs are so generous, and how my own perhaps failed on this front.

A good song offers refuge to all, no matter their story. The pieces of one’s puzzle can come together within its logic, its melodies, its refrain.

I think these things as I pump some lotion onto my hands, wrapping my longing, and the scent of roses, around me with my blankets.

I’m still alive, I’m still alive.

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A MEDITATION:

Make a date with a song you love. As its story unfolds, find the story the song holds for you. Sing along.

May all beings have moments like these. A safe pause to remember, an open road ahead.

Feel free to share your favorite songs and the stories they conjure in the comments (especially if they include wacky neighbors!).

I’d love to give a listen, too.

xx Alexa