"Grace/to be born and live as variously as possible" --Frank O'Hara
Between the morning's alarm and the evening's ching, my days are pretty much the same. Train, work, food, work, train. I've got a handful of favorite lunch spots, a handful of favorite dinner spots, and a handful of favorite people with whom to eat (Can you use the word whom in a blog?). Nearly every evening, as I push through the subway door on the way home, I notice that the paint is worn away where my hand hits. I love my life, but variously as possible it's not.
Except sometimes, when I remember to stop for breakfast at the Shake Shack and am rewarded with a glimpse of the guy who walks both his cat and his miniature leather-clad Doberman in the park, or I get to help an old lady with her laundry, and am rewarded by not having to think of myself for a few minutes, or, engrossed in my book, I miss my stop and am rewarded by getting to take a new route.
And the air fills with a mysterious sweetness, and I feel like saying grace.