NOTICE

on coming home.

The couch has barely cleared the threshold when the first email appears.

RUGS, says the subject line. All caps. I don’t yet recognize the name of whoever is shouting.

PLEASE REMOVE YOUR SHOES INSIDE THE APARTMENT. DO YOU HAVE RUGS DOWN YET? YOUR FOOTSTEPS ARE SO LOUD MY CEILING IS SHAKING.

Ah, I think. Our new downstairs neighbor seems like fun.

He has our email because as luck would have it, he is also the building manager. I regret that there is no “rewind” button for life, no mythic ability to go back and undo our choices, armed with the knowledge of the future. Instead, I begin to digest that I have just signed a lease on top of a troll.

I fire off a polite reply. What he hears is the sound of our movers, moving. They must keep their boots on because there is snow on the ground. We’ll be settled in soon, as will our rugs.

By this point, I’ve lived in at least a dozen NYC apartments, each with their fair share of special neighbors — the guy who dressed like a superhero and left under the cover of darkness, or the one who stacked pizza boxes in precarious piles outside their door, or the family who blasted “Baby Shark” twenty-four hours a day for a full year until doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo underscored my dreams. But never has anyone cited me as the source of unwanted sound. Moving is noisy, I think, but we are not. Surely, this will be fine.

Yet the emails continue:

TELEVISION

MUSIC

STOMPING

NOISE

Or my favorite, the perennial catch-all, NOTICE, which he employs with staggering frequency.

We layer rugs on top of carpets on top of (allegedly) sound-proof padding, sport slippers that make us look like cloud-hoofed sheep. We stop inviting guests, avoid using the blender, watch TV on a laptop, steer clear of the floorboards that creak. Short of levitation, there is nothing more we can do. Except, of course, to leave.

We have to move, we say, so often we almost stop hearing it. It becomes a pleasantry, a tic, sound that no longer has meaning. We have to move, we say, as rents skyrocket and we linger just a tad longer in rent-stabilized limbo.

We stay four years. It never feels like home.

*

When I was a kid, my prized possession was an electric typewriter that clickety-clacked like a herd of Clydesdales. (The downstairs neighbor would’ve loved it.) I used it to write stories ­— complicated, formulaic sagas about teen serial killers and angsty vampires, not-so-loosely inspired by R.L. Stine. I tried my best to practice typing as we’d learned in school, fingers positioned on the home keys.

I liked this idea of home. A check-in point. A landing. The constant that punctuated the story as it unfolded.

Home is one of those loaded words that we rattle off without thinking, that means everything and nothing, that changes depending on the context.

“Home” is more than four letters, more than four walls. As much a concept as a location. There is the body, the corporeal home. The infinite dwelling of the mind. The homes we are born into, and the ones we choose. The havens, physical and emotional, we establish for ourselves.

For me, the word conjures images of snails and hermit crabs, lugging their shelter as they go, like so much baggage. It stretches beyond the parameters of borders and territories, mortgages and deeds, to that vague sense of belonging some spend their whole lives seeking.

The one we find, and create, within.

This week, the neighborhood church sign bears this quote from Giovanni’s Room.

*

I do not remember when I acquired so many books, their volume suddenly staggering as they need to be moved. Most of what I own is paper, my net worth largely pulp. Funny how things can be worthless and priceless, depending on who you ask.

As I pack, I find my mother’s passport. It bears no stamps. The photo is twenty-four years old. In it, she is barely a decade older than I am now.

My mom hated being photographed and avoided it at all costs. Left the room. Wore sunglasses. Ducked behind a person or pillar or tree. In one memorable photo, taken on her birthday, she pulled a balloon over her face just as the shutter went off, so only her hands are visible.

So, her driver’s license, her passport — those photos hardly anyone likes — are among the few I have. I wrap them up like treasure, tuck them away with the histories that are now mine alone.

This, too, is home.

*

The couch has not yet left the apartment when the last email appears.

POUNDING, screams the subject line. We are moving out too loudly. Can we try to be a bit quieter?

I appreciate this final offering, the gift of absolute certainty. I was almost nostalgic for this chapter, this street, this space. But as I exit the building, bound for the new place, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m so happy I could almost run. And so, I do.

*

Everyone in our new building is outwardly friendly, a New York City anomaly. I joke that it feels like Sesame Street, bemoan the lack of anonymity. What if I want to walk the dog without greeting the neighborhood? Still, I admit, it’s much better than the alternative.

We’ve been here less than a week when there is a knock on the door. We aren’t expecting anyone. My heart leaps to my throat. We’ve been too loud, I think. We left too much recycling in the bin. How dare we take up space.

I open the door to find our new next-door neighbor. She is smiling. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I’m hosting a little school reunion at my apartment,” she says. “If there are any issues, please let me know. And I’d love to get together soon!”

Communication! Delivered without caps. Imagine that.  

*

As I type, my neighbor’s guests erupt into laughter, like a delighted studio audience.

Unlike my (former!) downstairs neighbor, I’ve always enjoyed the sound of life nearby. Sure, the din of car horns or shouting or a persistent leaf blower can drive me as bonkers as the next person. But peals of laughter on a Sunday afternoon only fill me with warmth.

I look around the new apartment, surveying the space, taking stock of what is, envisioning what may be. It is brighter here, in more ways than one. From the other side of the wall, laughter rises and falls.

It sounds like life, unfolding.
It looks like change, settling.
And it feels like home.

Excited to share more pics once the space is a bit more settled. But here is Gnocchi’s spot (“Kiki’s corner”), where she keeps watch.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Le Tarot de L’étoile Cachée, with art by Elisa Seitzinger

On the surface, the Chariot is a card about momentum. It brings to mind those golden moments when everything comes together — where preparedness meets luck meets so many green lights — and we are able to leap forward.

But the deeper truth behind this card is that we are always moving, even when we aren’t in motion. We are always growing, learning, evolving. We are always problem-solving. We are always finding our way.

Sometimes it’s obvious, and sometimes it’s not.

The iconic Smith-Waite deck, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

We tend to see life as a series of events and encounters. If we were to sit down to write our memoir, or to summarize our origin story on a date or job interview, which moments would we include? All too often, when we gaze back at where we’ve been, the big moments reign supreme, and it can be easy to discount what happens “on the way.”

But a lot takes place in these transitory, liminal spaces. Much of our lives are spent in the in-betweens — between events, between decisions, between moments. Between the lines.

The Chariot considers all steps worthy, all turns valid, all plot points deserving of exploration. This week’s message urges you to look not only where you’re going, but also where you are.

What do you know, right now? Gaze out the window, take in the scenery. Feel the ground beneath you, the air on your skin. Take a glance in the rearview mirror, at where you’ve been — but also, at how far you’ve come.

This card reminds us to not discount the process. There is value to be found in the wading, marinating, fact-finding parts of life. There is value in the doing and the trying. Sometimes the dots connect in ways you can’t appreciate until you’re finally able to zoom out. There is no such thing as a “right” direction, there is simply onward. We forge the path as we go.

The Chariot says you’re on your way — even when you’re not sure where you’re going, or when you’ll arrive. When you gaze out at the landscape stretching before you, what resonates, to the core of your being? This is the only direction we need.

At its most basic level, The Chariot is a means. It is a vehicle, a tool, a vessel. But the real wisdom of this card is that it casts us as the charioteer.

It paints us moving through the world, traversing lands, covering ground, making things happen. We are the ones navigating the ship. We are the ones writing the story.

This card urges us not to worry so much about timing, logistics, directions. Especially when it comes to life. ETAs are good for planes, but not so helpful for people.

Arrive in the moment.

And the next. And the next.

The Chariot will take you where you need to go.