Sights

During my daily wanderings in the neighborhood, I always observe the area’s architecture: buildings of soft greys and beiges, quaint brownstones, moldings reminiscent of the Victorian era, and of course, facades of warm red bricks crumbling at their corners – that have all become so charmingly characteristic of the West Village.

Today, however, on my way to The Elk, my beloved haven of a coffee shop, I passed by a building with a more distinct visual aesthetic: a modest, three-story building made of wooden planks painted vibrant yellow, with shutters as green as ivy.

I took a moment to stop and take in the site. Of course, the lemon-inspired building was individually unique and drastically different than the buildings around it. Yet, to me, its presence didn’t disrupt the visual fluidity of its more neutral surroundings. Rather than standing out from the rest unusually, I perceived the yellow and green building as a refreshingly bold ingredient that has been sprinkled into the grand recipe that is the West Village – adding a surprising sweetness to the neighborhood, as opposed to something random.

Others, however, might behold a different point of view – that this building is bizarre, strange, or odd, simply because it’s different – which is an unfair perception because those qualities rest on the building’s surroundings rather than its own individual identity. If the other buildings around it were painted of vibrant colors too, this particular building wouldn’t be different at all.

But even as “distinctive” and “unusual” are relative, flimsy qualities rooted in contrast and comparison, in my eyes, the yellow and green building embellishes its surroundings and contributes to the charm of the Village because of its uniqueness.

So perhaps we mustn’t think much of those judgments of us, that label us as peculiar or different in comparison to others – because who’s to say? Although being “different” is inevitable in many circumstances, we must remember the yellow and green building in a sea of neutrals sitting proudly on Charles Street: the needle in the haystack, or the sweet lemon in a row of bricks, if you will.

Perhaps if we embrace the qualities that make us unique and colorful and display them with confidence, we can view our differences as enchanting rather than odd, and add our own distinct flavors to the recipe that is life.

132 Charles Street, New York, NY 10014

The reality of life is that everyone has opinions about one another – things we like about each other, and frankly, things that we don’t. With that, we are constantly being watched – by strangers, peers, friends, colleagues, and even relatives.

Perception constructs a big part of our identities – in the eyes of others, and even in our views of ourselves. Consequently, though, we can get so caught up in this idea of perception and existing as products of external judgments, that we can lose sight of ourselves underneath society’s glare – beneath the imaginary magnifying glass that seemingly hovers over us.

Nevertheless, how we view and process what others see in us, is also significant. When we become aware of what people see in us and discover how we might come across to others, we have a choice:

On one hand, we have the choice to ignore these perceptions – to turn our backs on others’ judgments of us and continue living our lives ignorantly, in our own heads and behind our own eyes. On the other hand, though, we can turn around and acknowledge these external perceptions of us when they are brought to our attention, and evaluate their truth and significance with humility – by stepping behind the eyes of those around us, to see ourselves more clearly through a fresh lens.

Of course, we must realize, unfortunately, that sometimes people’s perceptions of us are false and tainted. We cannot avoid the presence of those around us who, for one twisted reason or another, would rather see us fail than succeed. We inevitably encounter eyes that behold jealousy and resentment towards us – whose negative opinions of us are perhaps projections of their own insecurities. However, in regards to the genuine beings around us, whose eyes see (and judge) from a place of clarity and honesty, we should utilize their perceptions and opinions of us as a source of introspection and a channel for self-improvement.

Therefore, maybe we shouldn’t think of other people’s eyes on us as a scrutinizing magnifying glass. Rather, it’s to our benefit to view others’ eyes on us as a mirror through which we can evaluate ourselves as individuals more clearly. And as a result, by keeping our eyes open to the genuine perceptions of those around us, we can embrace our honorable traits with more pride, improve our flaws with more understanding, and see – each other and ourselves – with more empathy, insight, meaningful depth, and vivid perspective.

The city’s unpredictable weather conditions seldom prevent New Yorkers from taking the streets. Snow or sleet, rain or shine, the city never stops, and neither do its people. We all deal with the same wavering temperatures in the damp concrete jungle, all alike. But if my people-watching for the sake of entertainment has taught me anything, it’s that we’re all different at the end of the day; we all possess personal characteristics that make us distinct from one another.

Our skin color, hair color, race, ethnicity, gender, and even clothing can craft our perceptions of others: dark skin versus fair skin, slender versus full-figured, Gucci dress versus Gap jeans, leather briefcase versus canvas knapsack, flowing blonde locks versus a bun in a hairnet, and so on.

For the most part, we can’t help the way we look; we have no choice but to expose these personal visual traits to the world, like skin color or professional attire. Yet, these visual cues present the space for us to make assumptions and to leap to conclusions about others based solely on their external depictions. We quickly associate people’s physical features with further meanings and implications – like socio-economic status, class, profession, and even personality – and as a result, we resort to a place surface-level judgment.

Nevertheless, maybe there lies the possibility of these appearance-based distinctions blurring and washing away…

Walking down Madison Avenue today, I was caught in the middle of an astounding spectacle: Translucent clouds softly caved in as rain began to fall from the sky, drenching the city. The buildings reflected sparkling metallic hues as colorful umbrellas popped open on the sidewalks, like tulips blooming in the spring. And rather than the different physical identity traits I usually notice each day, I saw the pedestrians around me as blurred reflections in puddles – ambiguous silhouettes against obscuring city lights with their faces hidden in hopes of staying dry.

Suddenly, the rain became a cleansing, equalizing force – a visual cloak of sameness that beautifully fell upon the city and made everyone come across somewhat similarly for the time being. Of course, there is nothing wrong with our unique traits and differences; they make us who we are. Yet, it was refreshing, even just for a few minutes, to see the superficial nuances I normally come across that can divide us, rinse away into the pavement.

Perhaps, therefore, we mustn’t identify others, even strangers, so heavily and rigidly based on appearance. Because once we’re rid clean of our visual differences that sit on the surface – when all that’s left are reflections in puddles, umbrellas and silhouettes – who are we then?

During my morning commute to work, I let my senses wander aimlessly per usual, basking in December’s chilled sunlight and the aroma that is Magnolia Bakery. And as I stood there across the Village’s sanctuary of sweets, on the corner of Bleecker Street and West 11^th Street, my eyes were drawn to the glimmering window display in front of Bookmarc – a quaint jewel of a shop, part of the Marc Jacobs empire. This time, though, it wasn’t the store’s eclectic collection of coffee table books that caught my attention, but rather, two small red hearts that winked at me through the glass.

I had some time to spare, so I listened to my own heart and walked into the store. I picked up the small, red, leather hearts off the wooden table, sitting on top of unraveled brown paper wrapping, and held them each in my palms. I looked closely; the word “YES” was embossed at each heart’s center in large text.

The man that worked behind the counter explained that the items are paperweights to be placed on a coffee table or office desk. I held both hearts next to one another, staring at them. From afar and at a cursory glance, they looked exactly the same. But when examined closely, the paperweights themselves differed ever so slightly: One was heavier than the other, each of their stitching faintly varied in thickness, and the leathers possessed feeble nuances in pattern and texture. The only element that was consistent between the two was the “YES” engraved on each.

The hearts in the window were the last two in stock, and the store is not expecting to receive any more. I eagerly bought one of the hearts, leaving the last one for another hopeless romantic to claim as his or her own.

I left Bookmarc and continued walking down Bleecker Street, as I slipped the paperweight in my backpack. At that moment, I had two full hearts: one replete with leather and stuffing, wrapped inside my bag, and the other one beating in my chest, filled with joy and excitement from my new purchase.

Just as the two paperweight hearts subtly differ from one another, so do we as human beings. Yet, we all possess this same organ within our rib cages that pumps blood and sustains us, with our veins acting as their stitching. And while we are all unique, each of our distinct hearts behold the same essential purpose: to let us live and to feel. In life, personal intricacies aside, we are all exposed to love – an emotion and a state of mind that ultimately makes us vulnerable. In this sense, we can feel as though our hearts are as heavy and susceptible to being ripped and torn as a leather paperweight.

When I got back to my apartment and set my paperweight down on my coffee table, I briefly pondered over the sight of my new trinket; maybe this fear of vulnerability is that which sometimes prevents us from revealing our hearts openly to others. The reason the paperweights sparked my interest and grabbed my attention so charmingly through Bookmarc’s glass window was because they were unwrapped and exposed to the world proudly for all shoppers to see, unconcealed beneath any brown paper packaging.

Perhaps, therefore, we must take note from these paperweights and remove the inhibitions wrapped around our own human hearts – to make them visible to those around us and to bare our potential to love. If we seize this freedom of being uncovered and unhidden by our fears, we can then embrace the possibility engraved at our cores: to be beautifully vulnerable, to exist boldly and openly, and to say, “YES” – to love and to life.

And in doing so, in living free of the worries we might tie to the prospect of love, we invite the space for romance to exist around us – for another person to respond, and to gravitate towards our open hearts that we display in the glass windows of our souls.

Bookmarc – 400 Bleecker St, New York, NY 10014

The word “blue” is conventionally associated with sadness and despair. Feeling blue is feeling down, as many people put it. For some reason that I can’t seem to put my finger on, blue is the depressed, despondent member of the color family, the outcast that all of the other colors, like vibrant yellow and blazing red, seem to feel sorry for. Blue is the one with the sad reputation, as though it seems.

On my walk home, I strayed from my usual route through the West Village, past Bleecker and Hudson Street, and decided to explore the Meatpacking District. I’ve always been enamored by this area: a strip of dazzling land that hangs out on its own part of the island. As mundane as it is magical, this district has often served as a portal into the night for me. Today though, I saw the area in a different light – literally. The vivid reflections of nightclub marquee lights in puddles of rain and spilled beer were replaced by sunlit cobblestone and clear glass store windows.  As I continued my walk, curiously aware of my surroundings (as I always am), I stopped in my steps, as I was face-to-face with this bright blue door, framed by warm bricks and dangling ivy – an image so charming, so beautifully blue, I had to stop my walk to take it in.

If I found something as ordinary as a door, a blue door nonetheless, pleasant to look at and even enchanting, why is blue tainted with our perceptions of the color as sad and down? Perhaps, the norms and clichés woven into the fabric of conventionality as we know it blind us from seeing and experiencing the true essences of different things and beings. Sometimes, the most beautiful things are blue, like closed doors waiting to be unlocked, opened, and walked through.

8 Little West 12th Street, New York, NY 10014

I know, I know, as the saying goes, “keep your head up!” I get it. I get the intent behind that loaded statement of encouragement and promise: keep your head up. Your mood up. Your hopes up. And all will be ok. I’m a believer in keeping your head up and facing in the direction of positivity and, well, onward-and-upward-ness. I am an undying optimist and live wholeheartedly with this phrase and for this phrase. “Keep your head up!”

But we’d all be lying if we said we don’t get knocked down from time to time. Because sometimes, life happens. Sometimes, the upward direction of our heads are forced downward. Sometimes, by the weight of our Mondays, our heartbreaks, our past-due assignments that we forget to submit, the “no’s” we encounter when we want to hear “yes,” and the gravity of reality, we inevitably look down because our necks can’t seem to hold themselves up any longer. And I know, trust me, I know. We’re told to get up off the floor when we’re knocked down: “Get back on the horse when you fall off,” as the saying goes. I’ve heard it countless times. But in this sea of clichés and inspiring bumper stickers that we’re surrounded by on a daily basis, that we sometimes drown in, we find ourselves restricted and limited – or at least I do, to the possibility of an alternate point of view. Whether it’s a grey day in the city or a walk to a class that I’m not looking forward to, sometimes I can be put down by the smallest, most insignificant things that, unfortunately, impact me kind of significantly. I guess that’s just the reality of things.

But maybe there is a beauty within this reality, a potential and promise for optimism and change at the core of our daily moments of adversity…? Perhaps the important act isn’t tilting our heads back up, but keeping our eyes and our hearts open when our heads are down. Sometimes, we stumble upon and (quite literally) walk right on by a subtle sign or sight that has the potential and the power to change our outlooks on our days and our experiences. And from what I’ve noticed when my head has been down, these catalysts of change aren’t always the most obvious or explicit. Sometimes, the little things that shock our hearts and our minds for the better are scribbled in chalk or hastily spray-painted on the ground right below the soles of our feet.

Sometimes, having our heads down for a moment at times when we can’t keep them up is an opportunity in disguise for spiritual refuel, if you will – as long as we stay present and aware, and keep our eyes open in the meantime for the hints of color that lie between the cracks of the grey.