A buttery and assured British voice speaks softly into my ear via my AirPods, he’s describing the work of his architecture studio in building The Vessel, a 16 story honeycomb structure in New York City. He details their creative process with considered pauses and flare, their inspiration had come from an unconventional source, India’s ancient step walls. He emphasizes the structure’s accessibility when describing the elevator, chosen to be built of glass, it shoots directly through the structure’s center offering a spectacular view.
I recall The Vessel vaguely as one of the many buildings to tower over me in the city last summer. Perhaps it was closed at the time. Looking to jog my memory, I type “the vessel nyc” into Google, expecting a photo to appear. Instead, Google asks to auto-complete my search with a single word, “suicide”.
I stare blankly, confused. My blue cursor blinks at me. I blink back.
I agree to the suggestion and scan the surfaced articles for plain facts. The number of people who have jumped to their death since the building’s opening: four. Their ages: between 14 and 24. The structure is closed until a prevention can be built. I feel sick and press the side of my iPhone so it will turn black.
I consider how sad it is for a life to end at 14, then how seismic the difference is in the light-hearted story of the designer I’ve just heard, recounting his creative innovation with the world, and the outcome of that innovation being used to end a young life. It jars me.
Bothered, I pack up my things and cycle home. When I pass a large ship yard, I can’t help but notice a welder beneath the belly of a boat some 30 foot tall, painted cherry apple red. On top of doubled scaffolding, he’s sealing a 6 foot iron seam while electric sparks of blinding white fly from his torch like confetti. Phil Collins blares from his speaker below, “You can't hurry love / No, you just have to wait / She said trust, give it time / No matter how long it takes…”. I’m interrupted from my grief with delight. It’s a beautiful sight. I think of a poem I know.
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.
– Jack Gilbert, A brief for the defence
There is a row of three city blocks known for homelessness and drug use in my city. Tents line the street, those living in them sit in small circles surrounded by their belongings, or lean against boarded up businesses. Some are alert, chatting. Some are agitated. Some are shooting up. Some are unconscious, hunched over so far they look spineless. Paramedic sirens blare. I scan their faces and find their eyes. I do this because of my sister. My intended friend at birth, given to me by fate and family, is someone I haven’t spoken to in many years. She is a person experiencing drug addiction. Though I cycle by on a nice bike in expensive clothes for a private personal training session, I feel an inch removed from what I see. I think of their wholeness, the wholeness of my sister, and what exists outside of this snapshot in time where they’ve found themselves in desperate circumstances. I wonder if someday I will find her here. I love her very much.
One early morning as I cycle through, I notice a man in his sixties in the McDonald’s parking lot. A small wooden wagon sits beside him with a strapped tarp that has taken the shape of his belongings underneath. He’s using the curb to play road hockey, hitting the ball with his stick again, and again. The light of day creeps in from the clouds above. He’s smiling. Joy in spite of suffering.
Our reality today is that reading the news is a masochistic act. War, sorrow, corruption, and greed are everywhere. Social media is linked to the rising rate of teen suicide risk, particularly in young girls. Tens of thousands have been killed in the war against Ukraine, over 3 million from COVID-19. A genocide wages on against the Uyghurs people in China. I care deeply about this suffering, but I accept the limits of my influence. I am forced to reject the narrative that doom alone is our human experience when I pay attention. I know we are not meant to live from a place of pessimism and that change cannot come from this place. It is not motivating. It is depressing. It is isolating. It is extremist. We have to guard our joy, remaining open to the total experience of life. We must admit there will be music despite everything.
Thank you for reading as always.
– Caitlin
That was an emotionally packed beautifully written piece. Wish I could relive the feelings of reading it for the first time. Thank you for sharing, Caitlin.
i seriously treasure each newsletter you send. i really love your writing and it's always so meaningful and precise, right to the core of things. i relate to this experience so much, i've really had to create space for both pain for the collective and daily moments of joy as an individual. there has to be both. and i do think that all of us reclaiming delight every day does in its own small way help make the world better.