A Sniffari for Two
My therapist is on maternity leave. I am someone who, as of late and maybe as of always, lives in a funhouse of oscillations between feelings of grandeur and feelings of worthlessness. That is to say, I think about myself constantly and it is the most annoying and boring topic of all time. My scrambled egg brain feeds me headlines like an algorithm even when I am not scrolling: “calories I’ve eaten today” or “is my dog depressed?” or “I need to go to Barnes and Noble” or “I should just spend all my money on sitting outside at restaurants since that is the only thing that has meaning in life” or “I need to stop spending money.”
In an effort to combat my self-absorbed nature without the aid of talk therapy (and simultaneously enjoy this more temperate weather), Fred and I have been going out for extended daily sniffaris. This term is usually only applied to dogs and means what it sounds like — they get to sniff around as much as they want and go wherever their nose leads them. I’ve decided to get it on the fun. When Fred stops to sniff a piss-filled tree or juicy soda spill on the sidewalk, I make like I’m at a railroad crossing and stop, look around, and listen.
Fred and I are lucky to live in one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in America. I’ve followed a new-to-me TikToker named Lena who shares works of art in Philadelphia that are hidden in plain sight. Her account has highlighted how much I’ve been missing while busy stressing and obsessing over nothing. Thinking about my next artistic pursuit while walking speedily passed historic mosaics. Wondering about my stagnation as the beautiful, carved indentations in the brownstones next to me beg to be observed. Questioning “mY pAtH” in life as I walk on a literal path that was built more than 200 years ago.
I’ve seen flower baskets that have made my jaw drop. Windows that I’ve walked by 100 times and never seen. Odd (offensive????) details on the tops of garages. This intention and mentality has seeped into other elements of my life. I’ve walked up the staircase of the Racquet Club of Philadelphia many times this summer, and just today realized that there is a massive, life-sized turkey sculpture on the landing. The turkey is (no other way to put it) serving cunt. It’s got one sassy talon up in the air and it’s little head with mean eyes is cocked back within it’s feathers. It’s stunning and arresting and I’ve been missing it.
I’VE BEEN MISSING IT! I’ve been missing it. I can actively feel myself rooted in the “good ol’ days” and unable to appreciate them for what they are. I don’t know if it’s because of my anxiety or Donald Trump or both or neither. I do know it’s time I am never getting back. I’ve never been this old and I’ll only be this young for a millisecond more. ABBA and Joni and Taylor and Samia all play through my mind simultaneously as I look in people’s windows. Odd melancholy feelings and circle games and wondering how long I have left with my dog.
“WOW. Life is challenging and being mindful is important? Groundbreaking.” I know. Everyone’s already been here and tread this same territory. Everyone is grasping at the moment that’s passed and hungry for the moment that’s coming. The turkey just sits and stares. The turkey is there while we let Michael Barbaro scare us, telling us in our earbuds how unprecedented everything is all the time forever. The turkey is there while we text a friend back. The turkey is there while we avoid.
I am trying to honor my life and the ways it is trying to slap me across the face. When attention must be paid. Sniffaris, playing squash, sitting on a patio with a spritz and a friend, writing these thoughts down on paper, running with my sisters, getting that long awaited email, rehearsing with my team, seeing a play that changes my brain chemistry. Letting the helpful slaps win over the hateful ones for one more day. Trying to stay slappable.
