art, history, home, New York City, retail, shopping

My Year of Hopefulness – Demolition Depot

Christa Avampato

On Saturday I took the bus up to East 125th Street to a place that’s fascinated me for some time. About 6 months ago, I was coming back from LaGuardia Airport on the M60 bus and went by a store with a strange looking sign that read “Demolition Depot”. At first I thought it may be a construction (or rather destruction) company. I imagined backhoes and front-loaders and items like that inside. But the shape of the building didn’t seem to fit that kind of business. I went home and Googled it to find that it is a place that houses dismantled building treasures from 5 continents. It is the dream house of many a film art director, or a writer like me. This is where old New York (and every other major city for that matter) finds a home for what remains. Inside its wall are thousands of stories waiting to be told.

I went up there today on a little writing adventure. I’ve been working on a fiction piece and thought that a trip to Demolition Depot may help jog some kind of inspiration. It did not disappoint. It reminded me of an old, 4-story barn. The smell of the place brought a smile to my face – musty and oddly comforting. I picked up a clipboard with an inventory form just in case I found some artifact that I wanted to take back with me.
My favorite spot of all was the garden, an area out back that houses giant gates and doors and wrought-iron screens – exterior pieces that on the street we would have to admire from afar. Here I could get up close and examine their details, every twist, turn, and adornment. Gargoyles and ornamentation and stained glass windows that took my breathe away. Who lived among these items? Where did they go? What did they do? What did they learn?
I felt as if I was walking through someone’s house, as if I was trespassing and wasn’t supposed to be there. I just loved it so much that I couldn’t turn away. I just spent hours weaving through the four floors and the garden. Taking pictures, making notes, even sitting at some of the table settings, two of which I immediately loved and wanted for my home.
The trip accomplished exactly what I had hoped. I walked away with images and ideas that will be cropping up in my writing for many months to come. I understand that material items are of little value when compared to the value of personal relationships in our lives. What I appreciate about the one of a kind items housed at Demolition Depot is that they have borne witness to extraordinary and ordinary events of the lives of thousands of people. People passed through those doors, looked out from those windows, told time by those great giant clocks that now lay in wait for some lucky new owner. A majestic treasure trove of history just waiting to be remembered and re-told.
history, home, New York City, writing

My Year of Hopefulness – The History of Where We Live

Christa Avampato

I crunched along on the few fallen leaves on Columbia’s campus walk yesterday and smiled wide. A perfect fall day took me back to being a student in Philadelphia, the tall, impressive buildings lined with names like Sophocles, Vergil, and Plato reminded me of the joy of academia.

Late in the afternoon I was on my way to see Inna Guzenfeld, an archivist at the Avery Architectural and Fine Art Library at Columbia. The papers and drawings of Emery Roth, the architect who designed and lived in my apartment building, are housed there. During the 1920’s Roth was the busiest architect in New York City, and many regard him as one of the founding fathers of the art deco movement. Until I moved into my building two weeks ago, I’d never heard of him and now I think of him and thank him every day.
“No bags, pens, no flash on your camera, touch the plans only on the edges, and we close at 5:00 sharp,” said Inna. She had everything laid out for me in perfect order, and all of the materials exactly as I had asked for him. She is the hallmark of efficiency.
There was an architect there doing research. Maybe in his 40’s, Elvis Costello glasses, lean, and intense. He looked up at me with some interest.
“Are you an architect?”
“No,” I fumbled. “I’m a writer.”
“Why are you interested in that building?”
“I moved into it two weeks ago.”
“Who’s the architect?”
“Emery Roth.”
“You live in an Emery Roth building?”
“Yes.”
“What floor?”
“Top floor.”
“Really?” he said as he quickly removed his glasses. “You know those buildings are stunning. I’ve had the chance to work in a few of them. Are they doing work on your building?” he asked.
“No, it’s actually perfect,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” he continued. “That man was a genius.”
And then I knew I was on to something.
I have been having architecture dreams, dreams where I feel my way along passages in my building, curling around dark corners to find some secret way through to the light. I’ve found myself waking up in the middle of the night with complete clarity and scribbling down notes as fast as I can before the images fade from my mind. So it was with great excitement that I learned that the actual building plans, made on linen, were preserved just 15 blocks north of my building by Inna and the team at Avery.
The Archives were freezing, a preventative measure to preserve their contents as well as possible. I peeled back the plans one at a time, pouring over dimensions and lines and descriptions of the very walls I wake up in every morning now. Their pungent, historical smell reminded me of the Fischer Fine Arts Library at Penn where I spent many hours studying and reading as a student. To this day, Fischer is still one of my favorite places on Earth. The floor on my side of the building remains exactly as it was then, in 1924. These were the maids’ quarters.
Inna also provided me with the autobiography of Roth, which I quickly devoured, and a book about his work entitled Mansions in the Clouds. Closing time was fast approaching so I was running through the text as fast as I could, continually fascinated that Emery Roth and I share some striking similarities, from the tone of our writing to our family lives as children. His writing style is so relaxed that I felt like he was reading to me, telling me the story of his life. I wondered why an architect committed such personal thoughts and feelings to paper while I also wondered if it was possible to fall in love with someone through his writing, someone I’ve never met who passed on decades before I was even an inkling in my mother’s eye. And then I was reminded of Thomas Jefferson and my affection for him as I read everything he ever committed to paper. Yes, love through writing is possible.
In the final 5 minutes of my time at Avery I found the gems I was looking for. A “Tower Room” was designed for my building, though I have yet to find it. What could someone house in a Tower Room? My mind is reeling with possibilities. Roth lived on the very floor where my current apartment is, on the other side. I found the plans and photographs of it. I believe it’s still in existence, exactly as he had designed it for himself. There are numerous references in his autobiography and in his drawings about his desire to build fire-proof buildings – it was of critical importance to him to protect his work from going up in flames. Chills ran down my spine.
What’s more, the building where I live provided the pinnacle of happiness for his wife. He designed the penthouse specifically for her. It was the living space she dreamed of, and then a sad set of circumstances set in for her in that very space, and she was never quite the same. The writer in me has been working overtime since leaving Avery. The fact that there were so many photos and that Roth wrote personally about the space in my building where he lived left me with a feeling that there is a story here that can and should be spun out and told.
As I packed up, Inna asked “did you find everything you needed?” “Absolutely,” I said, “thank you.” The architect next to me looked up and smiled. I suppose my giddiness at my findings showed, and he understood them well. The places we live house special meaning. They aren’t just a collection of walls and doors, but they contain intense, personal moments that define our lives. This new space is a new chapter for me, in my life and in my writing.
The image above is not my own. It depicts the lobby of Devonshire House, a building in Greenwich Village of New York City, that was design by Emery Roth in 1928.
change, future

My Year of Hopefulness – Imagination and Limits

Christa Avampato

“My favorite place is my imagination.” ~ Jackie Pagan


On my way to see Muhammad Yunus earlier this week, one of the subway posters caught my attention. It said “Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world.” It’s a quote from Arthur Schopenhauer, the German philosopher. It made me think of how often our own reality and experience limits our ability to realize, work for, and achieve change in every aspect of our lives. How do we begin to expand our limits to imagine a wholly different existence, for ourselves and for others?


I find that reading helps. I read a lot of biographies and autobiographies, and reading about the accomplishments and motivations of others gives me inspiration and courage. Stubbornness and a desire to seek out and generate understanding can go a long way toward imagining a different kind of world.


“The moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too,” Goethe said. It’s true in business, in personal relationships, in rising above challenges. If we commit to being present and persevering, somehow we make it through even the most difficult of times. Somehow the way ahead opens before us. There’s real magic in commitment.


There were plenty of times in the past three weeks when I thought I might fall apart; when I felt scared and alone and filled with anxiety. And the moment I felt those old familiar feelings creeping in, I promptly slammed the door on them. I couldn’t let myself feel defeated; that’s a road to nowhere. I had to keep digging deeper for strength. I had to imagine a different reality where I was grateful for who and what I have in my life, rather than being resentful for what I had lost. I could not let my previous vision of my day-to-day life limit how I looked at my life for all of my tomorrows. I had to commit to a new way forward where I seek to love this and every moment. It’s a commitment I’m making every day.


Our imagination is powerful beyond measure, so powerful that we can barely even comprehend our full capabilities for change. We are the only ones who place limits on our vision. The world is a wide-open space, a blank canvas that we color in to our own liking. If only we could recognize that, we’d be able to keep from painting ourselves into a corner. We can and should invent and re-invent ourselves over and over again. And as we take on that challenge of re-invention we inspire others to do the same. In truth nothing has to be as it is; it can all be changed.

adventure, apple, New York City, technology, writing

My Year of Hopefulness – Programming and the Mind

Christa Avampato

I seem to be receiving a “critical update” from Apple everyday on software that’s installed on my computer. I’m not really sure what any of the fixes are or why I need them, but I trust Apple. If they say I need them, then I assume that I do. So I click the little button that says “install now” or something to that effect. I go about my business while Apple magically repairs all of my software problems in the background. I’m an efficiency junkie so I’m a big fan of parallel-pathing.

Writing works a lot like those critical updates from Apple. Friends, family, and co-workers always ask me, “when do you find the time to do all of this writing?” Truthfully, I’m always writing. Sorry – this is my confession. My writing mind is always working in the background while I go about the rest of my life. When I’m having dinner with friends, at movies, at CVS buying shampoo, at work, I’m writing, tucking away little bits and pieces to use later. I’m one of those hopelessly nerdy people who always has a pen and piece of paper in my bag. Even when I’m heading to a big night out. You just never know when something interesting will happen. And I can’t be held responsible for keeping it all stuffed in my brain. I need that pen and paper.

I also purposely try to put myself in interesting situations. I seek out new people, go to lectures, book readings, and art exhibitions all the time. It’s one reason I am so in love with New York, and fall more in love with it everyday – there’s always something new to see, do, and try. New York and I have had a long and sordid history together. 11 years running. At times, we’ve been blissfully happy to be with one another and at other times, we’ve each gone running for the hills. But we always somehow end up back together, New York and I. This is my third time moving here, and I imagine you’ll find me here for a very long time to come. There’s just too much going on here for me to be away for that long. My writing lives and breathes here.

I’ve been wondering how Apple knows what to fix and how to fix it in these updates. My only idea is that it goes out into the world and takes stock of the latest software landscape to make needed improvements. I do the same thing in my writing. In the past year, I’ve been sending myself out on little writing adventures in New York. Odd-ball museums, sitting in a crowded area and eaves-dropping, going to parts of town I never frequent without a map and getting as lost as possible. On Saturday, I’ll be heading to the Demolition Depot on 125th Street. It contains 4 floors and a garden full of architecture pieces from every conceivable period. When buildings are dismantled all over New York City, most of the pieces end up at the Demolition Depot.

Can you imagine what crazy things that place stores? While I’m sure there’s a fair amount of mundane items like antique faucets, I’m equally sure that there are valuable items that will inspire my writing. A fireplace that I’ll imagine someone sitting before, a gargoyle who faithfully watched over a busy street for many years, a mirror where a young girl watched herself become a woman. You see – inspiration is everywhere; you just need to keep looking, especially in unlikely places.

My fingers are getting itchy. Just writing about writing is giving me some ideas. This writing mind of mine is working in the background and it’s almost time for me to reboot to see all of the changes that have occurred in the past few minutes. In the time it’s taken me to write this post, some more dots have connected, and I have to make sure to get this all down before it’s hopelessly lost in the abyss. I’d like to think I’m a recovering multi-tasker, though as with most addictions, I guess I’ll always be in a constant state of recovery, never quite cured of my desire to do multiple things at once. Thank goodness for background processing!

books, poverty, social change, social entrepreneurship

My Year of Hopefulness – Muhammad Yunus

Christa Avampato

“I am always optimistic. There is no other way…I am not interested in a person’s past. I care only about their future.” ~ Muhammad Yunus

Many economists tell us that so long as there is capitalism, there will be poverty. So long as there are “haves”, there will be “have nots”. Tonight I went to 92Y to see Muhammad Yunus, Founder of Grameen Bank, Noble Prize winner, and an economist who has stood up to the cynics time and time again. The most remarkable thing about him is not that he blatantly defies his peers, but that he defies them, has proven the fallacies in their beliefs through the outcomes of his own actions, and garners the respect of his detractors.

When I consider what it’s like to live an extraordinary life, Professor Yunus is the first person I think of. His indomitable will, compassion, love, and concern for others is unmatched, particularly in the financial field. He is my hero so it was with great excitement that I sat in the audience at 92Y waiting for him to be interviewed by Matthew Bishop from The Economist. Yunus did not disappoint. From the moment he stepped on stage, he glowed with goodness.
The more he discussed microcredit and entrepreneurship, the happier I became. I could feel his goodness making its way into my own heart. His calm, charming confidence is something to behold and emulate. I could barely take my eyes off of him.
Then a strange thing happened. Professor Yunus began to talk about how to get started, how to begin building a life that truly contributes to the benefit of humanity. “Make a pact from where you are, now, to help 5 people up out of welfare.” He discussed how he didn’t try to tackle the whole country of Bangladesh in his early work. He worked with a handful of people in a very small village. And when that seemed to work, he ignored the nay-sayers, as always, and helped a few more people. And encouraged those he’d helped to help others in the same way. Take tiny, tiny steps to help others, and never, ever give up. “That,” he said, “is the miracle seed.”
It was in that instance, in Professor Yunus’s miracle seed comment, that my heart and mind joined forces and took a decided turn. I could feel a physical, mental, and emotional shift within me. At the conclusion of the talk, I ran home, literally. My friend, Richard, is always encouraging me to write to anyone and everyone who interests me. This advice as served me well in the past, so I got home and cranked up the letter writing machine.
On my way back through Central Park, I composed a letter in my mind to a very wealthy businessman who runs a company that has recently set up a very profitable service. I’ve written to him before, once by name and once anonymously, offering up thanks and suggestions to him, respectively. Today, I asked for his help is using a very, very small portion of the money his service has made to set up a small test of microcredit in New York City, similar to the work that Professor Yunus’s Grameen Bank is doing in Jackson Heights, Queens. When I got home, I typed up the letter, printed it, signed it, and stuck it in an envelope. I ran out to the mailbox on the corner outside of my apartment building, and dropped it in. I had to get it written and out the door before I got too scared to send it. So now I’ll wait and see if a response comes.
It’s an odd thing when we hand over the reigns to our future. When we leave rational thought behind and follow our hearts, it’s amazing what we find, what we can accomplish. Professor Yunus closed the talk by telling a story about Dannon yogurt. He kept pushing them and pushing them to develop a yogurt product, in a special edible container, that would benefit the children of Bangladesh. (Half the children who live in Bangladesh suffer from malnutrition.) “An edible container?” they asked him. “Yes, yes, we must,” demanded Professor Yunus. He thought they’d be angry. Instead they thanked him for pushing the boundaries of their work. “How can we answer something we are not asked?” they said. Perhaps this businessman I wrote to will feel the same way.
And now the fear is setting in. What have I done in writing this letter? Who do I think I am to go around suggesting that a large financial institution consider taking a tiny slice of their profit during a recession and using it for a microcredit program? And then I smile, and think to myself “I just let my inner-Yunus run free.” If I’m scared, I must be doing something worthwhile. What could our world be like if we all did just that? What if we suggested the impossible and then went for it?
children, education, innovation, social entrepreneurship, theatre

My Year of Hopefulness – In the Beginning

Christa Avampato

“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning.” ~ Louis L’Amour


Today marked an end and then a beginning, in one single action. After almost a year of considering how I might help children in public schools in New York City, I mailed off two packages, one to Bronx Charter School for the Arts and one to M.S. 223. Inside the packages is a folder with a cover letter, my resume, and an 8-page concept paper that outlines an after-school program that I’d like to pilot beginning in January 2010. The after-school program uses theatre to teach innovation, product development, and entrepreneurship to 6th grade students.

The journey to the concept paper was a long and winding road:

Early Summer of 2008
Began to consider how I could build an on-line innovation kit for kids

August 2008
Changed jobs and got involved in an at-work volunteer program with Junior Achievement of New York. Wondered if I missed my calling and should become a public school teacher.

December 5, 2008
Volunteered for a day-long program at M.S. 223 in the Mott Haven neighborhood of the South Bronx. Felt scared, responsible, and at home, all at once. I taught economics for a day to 7th graders. I got more of an education than the students did that day. Have been thinking about those kids every day since.

May 17, 2009
Started building my first draft of the concept paper, initially named “Innovation Workbook”. It was terrible. I was afraid to show it to anyone because I’d thought they’d laugh at the idea. Put my fears aside and kept working.

June 3, 2009
Wrote the first draft of a mission statement, or what I termed “A Reason for Being”. It was awful, though I began to think that I might be on to something.

mid-June 2009
Began to talk to some friends about the concept. No one laughed; they got very excited about the idea and that got me more excited. They had great ideas. I used all of them to build a better concept. My friend, Liz, offered the idea to make this an after-school program rather than try to build it in to the traditional curriculum.

July 4th weekend, 2009
I started sending a rough draft of the concept paper to my friends who offered their ideas and were excited about the project. I knew the paper was terrible but the idea was getting better. My friends offered more help, more advice. The concept kept getting better.

July 23, 2009
Named the project Innovation Station while laying on my couch, unsuccessfully trying to take a nap. Decided to use short theatre scripts as a way to communicate the material.

Early August 2009
While reading the book, Eiffel’s Tower, decided to feature famous innovators throughout history as part of Innovation Station.

August 2009
Continued to revise the concept paper, did more research. Many friends suggested I dig into data to prove the need and value of my program. Was startled by the statistics I read about after-school programming and public school education in inner-cities. Kept shopping around my ideas and taking any and all suggestions. Wrote 8 full drafts in total.

September 15, 2009
Heard about Bronx Charter School for the Arts. Researched them and thought they may be a good fit for Innovation Station. Put them on the very short list with M.S. 223.

September 22, 2009, afternoon
Made a few last minute edits, and dropped the proposals in the mail to M.S. 223 and Bronx Charter School for the Arts in the hopes that one of them will be the pilot program location.

September 22, 2009, evening
Waiting. Hoping. Nervous Excited.

My friend, Jamie, went to the post office with me to put the packages in the mail. I adore him, even though he can be a little curmudgeonly at times. He is exceedingly generous with help, advice, and contacts, despite his rough around the edges personality. It comes from being so brilliant and highly educated. He is one of the friends I count on to keep me grounded. I try to add more whimsy into his life. “So what do you do now?” he asked. I hadn’t thought of what I’d do now; I guess I have been worried that I’d just edit myself to the point of being paralyzed. I never imagined myself sealing up the envelopes and dropping them in the mail. I guess I was worried that I’d never figure it out. “I wait,” I said to Jamie.

This morning, my old friends, Fear and Self-ridicule, were back with a vengeance. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe it would never help anyone. Maybe no school would ever be interested. Who am I to think I can write curriculum? I began reading and editing again. And something truly miraculous happened. As I re-read the proposal, I got more excited. I began to think that maybe, maybe, maybe this was the beginning on the a life-changing road for me. Just as I was finishing the proposal, I thought “this might be the beginning of something really exciting. I just might be able to help some kid who’s facing the same circumstances I faced when I was that age.” And with that thought I sealed up the packages and headed for the post office.

Fearing that I’d have a last minute panic attack, I quickly put the packages under the slotted window for the postman to grab and stamp. There was no turning back once he tossed them into the bin. And away they went, into the abyss of mail, on a very simple mission to try to make a difference in one kid’s life. I ran for the door and never looked back. I had to get on with my beginning.
community, dreams, faith, grateful, gratitude, learning, love

My Year of Hopefulness – Ancient Wisdom

Christa Avampato

“The interdependency of Humankind, the relevance of relationship, the sacredness of creation is ancient, ancient wisdom.” ~ Rebecca Adamson

On the 17th floor of my apartment building, I feel a little closer to what’s miraculous and sacred in our world. In the past few weeks I have felt some energy driving me toward something new; I’ve felt my life taking on a different kind of meaning. Last night as I was getting my apartment ready for the movers to arrive, I had my music on, washing my new kitchen supplies and watching the sun sink down behind those lovely water towers. In one moment I felt intensely overcome with gratitude, as if my heart had opened up in a way that it never has before. There seemed to be so many opportunities laid out before me and all I had to do was select one, like taking a book from a shelf.

I began to tick through my personal relationships and all of the strength and hope and inspiration that I find in each of them. I started to recall kindnesses and favors and support that I’ve been offered, not just in the past few weeks but as far back as I can remember. I wanted to give the whole world a great big hug, followed by a great big thank you, for everything.

I wonder if this feeling, this sense of belonging has been available to me along and I just didn’t see it or didn’t know how to tap into it. I’m intrigued by the difference between looking and seeing, by how often we run around desperately seeking that which inevitably ends up being right in front of us. What if we just stopped, for a brief moment, and saw with a new kind of clarity the many blessings we have, recognized are tremendous capacity for change, for goodness, for creation.

We can construct a richer, happier, more meaningful existence, for ourselves and others, by tapping into the wisdom that is all around us, by recognizing that we are all always in this together. All of a sudden when we realize we aren’t alone, when we recognize that there are ancient, fundamental learnings that connect us across generations, across the globe, across time continuums, our feelings of loneliness and isolation are replaced by community and love. The impossible becomes not only possible, but imminent.

books, social entrepreneurship, women

The Journal of Cultural Conversation: What Can You Do To Help The World’s Women?

Christa Avampato

Last weekend, I went to 92Y to hear Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn discuss their new book Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide. The book chronicles their travels through Africa and Asia, interviewing women who are enduring unbelievable circumstances and exhibiting equally unbelievable strength. It is filled with data, facts, and figures that methodically document the travails of women in the developing world. Their stories simultaneously broke my heart and lifted me up. They are issuing a call to action, today, to each of us.

To read the full article, please click here.

books, discovery, fear, friendship, patience, yoga

My Year of Hopefulness – At the End of the Test

Christa Avampato

One can’t learn much and also be comfortable. One can’t learn much and let anybody else be comfortable.

On Friday night I went for a walk with my friend, Dan. We wound our way through Central Park talking about recent events in our lives, challenges we’re facing, things we’re excited about. We got onto the subject of testing. When recently talking to a friend of his about a particular circumstance he’s working though the friend said, “Like Job, you are being tested.” Dan’s response was a simple question, “What do I get if I pass the test?” I’ve been thinking about that question all weekend.

As I was working through my yoga practice this morning, I was thinking about the idea of comfort versus discomfort. Times of testing are often uncomfortable times. We just want to get through them as quickly as possible. We want the shortest path to relief. Yoga teaches us to be comfortable being uncomfortable, sinking into the pose, going deeper, as opposed to pulling away often helps us. Perhaps the shortest relief to discomfort is through, similar that old saying of “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Every day that saying makes more sense to me.
Maybe Charles Fort is correct: If we shrank away every situation that was challenging, every situation that brought some kind of fear or discomfort, perhaps we’d never learn anything. If we embrace fear, discomfort, and confusion for the sake of learning, maybe challenging times become easier to bear. Maybe learning is the prize at the end of our test. All that’s required of us is patience and commitment. We just have to keep showing up, for ourselves and for one another.
death, dying, gratitude, happiness, peace, religion

My Year of Hopefulness – Trinity Churchyard

Christa Avampato

A happy side effect of losing close family members at a young age is that I never feel uncomfortable with the concept of death. I often talk to my relatives who have crossed-over. I think about them all of the time; I find reminders of them everywhere; I feel their presence in my daily life. On and off in my life I’ve done volunteer work in nursing homes, with hospice, and in critical care facilities in hospitals. It’s something I’m considering doing again – there’s so much to be learned about life from the dying.

Because of my comfort with death and dying, I find comfort in places like cemeteries. They’re such peaceful places. On my lunch break yesterday, I went to do an errand and went past Trinity Churchyard, this tiny plot of land that sits at the corner of Wall Street and Broadway. It’s a small green haven among the concrete and constant construction in the area. It is the final resting place for a number of famous New Yorkers, Alexander Hamilton being the most iconic figure there. I couldn’t resist stepping inside for a moment. Once I crossed through the gate, the noise of the city seemed to dissipate. I don’t know how that happened. The sunshine seemed a little brighter, the air felt a little sweeter. It actually felt homey.
Much to my relief, many other people were seated on the benches that are dotted along the cemetery paths. People enjoying their lunch, talking with friends, sitting quietly, thinking. It was a sweet thing to see the living and the dead co-exist in such an easy harmony. It’s exactly what a final resting place should be.
I felt drawn to take a look into Trinity Church as well. I felt like I was peeking into someone’s home. It’s a fairly small church when compared to the likes of St. Pat’s or St. John the Divine, but it feels warmer, like a place where you could take your problems and worries and ask for help. In the main hall, I felt like I was so close to something holy, a kind and empathic ear.
In the back of the church there is a small chapel meant for quiet contemplation and prayer. There was a man at the front weeping, softly. He must be going through a very hard time. I lit one of the candles just outside the chapel and took a seat in the back. I thanked God for helping me through these last few weeks, offered up my immense gratitude for my wonderful friends and family who have been so supportive and helpful.
Just before I left, I found myself saying a little prayer for the man at the front of the chapel. I don’t know him, will probably never know him. I don’t know what he’s going through but it must be something very difficult. I prayed that the same strength I’ve found in the past few weeks will touch him as well, that somehow the strength and positive outlook that’s been such a gift to me will find its way to him also. With all of the abundant blessings in my own life, I felt that it was the least I could do.