Pausing to Breathe

“Pausing to Breathe”

Kathryn Dwyer – Honorable Mention

“First, let me take your temperatures, and then could you write your address down for contact tracing, please? Be sure to include your email address and cell phone number. You have reservations I assume?” said the overworked petite hostess wearing a N-95 mask, at the Ear Inn as she motioned to the battered spiral notebook. I pushed my friend, David, to write down his information since he lived in the theater district; I was just visiting for a potential job interview.

Three days earlier, I had flown to New York from Arizona to visit my beloved city and had my required negative COVID-19 test results with me. I was contemplating returning to New York since my father had recently passed away, and I’d been laid off from my job in Scottsdale.

On this clear, cool autumn day, David and I visited my favorite historic bar, the Ear Inn on Spring Street. The Ear Inn was established in 1817 and is considered to be one of the oldest operating drinking establishments in all of New York City. Caught in another time, with 19th century tin celling and the 18th century pine paneled wooden walls, the bar was jam-packed with sailing memorabilia, unique rusted signage, nautical artifacts, and historic photographs. Aside from the only dedicated employee acting as the sole server, manager and cook, David and I were the only people there for lunch.

“Our chef will not be in until 4:00PM. We have English pasties that I can heat up with a salad for lunch.” David and I looked at each other in bewilderment. “Yes,” the server-manager-cook answered as if reading our minds, “we do have a full bar.” David had recently lost his job at the Kimberly Hotel, due to a lack of visitors. Together, we agreed a pitcher of Sam Adams sounded great. After a strangely quiet hour, we left and we walked outside onto the uneven, cobblestoned sidewalk.

The expensive row of downtown hotels seemed vacant, even though Thanksgiving was only a day away. All the streets and subway stops were missing their energetic

and incredibly diverse crowds; the people who defined the city I had known for over thirty years. Broadway’s theatres were dark, and the Metropolitan Opera, New York Philharmonic, and New York Ballet had cancelled their entire 2021 seasons. Likewise, Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall cancelled all fall programming; and 2021 New Year’s Eve in Times Square was planning a virtual ball drop without crowds for the first time in 114 years. Although, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, the Museum of the City of New York, and the Whitney Museum of Art reopened five days a week, they were requiring temperature checks, contact tracing, timed tickets and reservations for all guests. Everywhere I looked, my NYC felt oddly unrecognizable.

I later learned that about 3.57 million people had moved from New York City in 2020, and 70,000 left the metropolitan region permanently, resulting in roughly $34 billion in lost income. Just two years earlier, New York City was considered the most populated city in the United States, with an estimated 8.3 million residents. It was known as the cultural, financial, and media capital of the world. It’s citizens significantly influenced commerce, entertainment, research, technology, education, politics, tourism, art, fashion, and sports.

After saying goodbye to David that afternoon, I visited the Museum of the City of New York on Fifth Avenue, where I interned for a year while working on my masters in Museum Studies. I had recently submitted an application for a mid-level position, slightly below my experience and pay grade. I was willing to try anything, since I had been unemployed for over a year. My hope was to interview for a position as Manager of Visitor Services, utilizing my strong non-profit references and David’s NYC address.

I felt surprised and saddened to learn that I was one out of ten people visiting the extensive institution that day. I noticed that I was the only customer in their large gift shop, which was over-staffed. Four employees rearranged full shelves, looking for things to do. “It’s really tough here, since March, all of our positions are frozen, and there are more layoffs coming soon due to COVID. We are lucky to just get by as you can see,” explained the twenty-something artfully tattooed manager.

After pretending to look at exhibits, some that I had already seen, and purchasing some NYC souvenirs, I walked down the beautiful white marble steps holding back my

tears. I was a single woman over fifty with twenty-five years of experience in the arts in New York City, and I felt completely lost. I recognized that I would need to explore new career options and found myself feeling deeply depressed with no answers.

I crossed the street while zipping up my twenty-year-old, full length black Calvin Klein coat. I walked briskly, matching steps with the few other New Yorkers hurrying down the autumn tree-covered cobblestone sidewalks. I recalled that I had noticed the same lack of people on the streets and in museums when I lived in New York City during the attacks on 9/11. However, this emptiness felt very different and 90% of the people out were wearing masks. They quickly glanced in fear at each other or just looked straight ahead. Some pretended to look busy playing with their cell phones, while others ignored their surroundings completely. I thought back to living in Manhattan during 9/11, which brought Manhattanites together as a community. We clapped and cheered for our first responders, we made food for our neighbors and the fire departments, stood in line to give blood that would not be needed (due to lack of survivors), and we shared stories of missing loved ones. Now, I felt fear, total isolation, lack of energy, an overwhelming sense of gloom and depression settling in.

I passed under the bright, yellow cathedral-like canopy of elm trees on Fifth Avenue, remembering that it was one of the largest and only remaining “stands of American elm trees in North America.” This was due to the fact that Manhattan was an island and had not been exposed to Dutch disease like the rest of the country. “How could these century old trees somehow survive living through the years of WWI, the Great Depression, WWII, Vietnam, NYC bankruptcy, 9/11, and still provide beauty, shade, shelter, and even comfort to its residents?” I wondered out loud.

If those glorious elms could survive all of that, surely, they could handle this pandemic. I made my way into Central Park, with its backdrop of hickory, sugar maple, and dogwood. I walked by the Jackie Kennedy Reservoir that stretched all the way from 86th to 96th Streets with views of the cherry trees turning bronze and red, and the maple and London plane trees were changing color, too. In the water, I spotted many species of birds, from several types of ducks to herons and egrets. Vibrant natural life was happening all around me, and I began to breathe the fresh, cool, soothing air.

Somehow, nature in New York City was flourishing, but mankind seemed to be drowning in poor decision making. Inconsistent museum policies in different parts of the country reflected the confusing, sometimes seemingly contradictory, sets of rules broadly governing public gathering places as officials struggled to contain the coronavirus. Most Chicago, Los Angeles and Washington, DC museums remained closed while some museums in New York and Phoenix were open. “The decision making has been really erratic,” Laura Lott, President of the American Alliance of Museums, explained in Museum magazine. “There are 50-plus sets of different rules and thousands of museums making different decisions.”

I, too, have been confused in my making career decisions impacting my life during this pandemic. My career in the museum world has been forced to pivot, but perhaps I am beginning to see some hope in real rays of light with my new forced practices of self-reflection, self-care, and learning to breathe again. Hiking in the beautiful Sonoran Desert four days a week in Arizona, on the largest urban preserve in America, has given me space to heal.

Walks in nature help. Writing helps. According to my physical therapist, I must “smell the flowers and blow out the candles” to feel any welcomed glimpse of hope that may lead to a path where expressions and smiles can once again actually be seen. Elms will continue to blossom and grow in New York City, and the saguaros of the Sonoran Desert will continue to thrive. Life will resume, reflecting a new sense of normalcy, and I will once again understand my purpose in it all.