Emily's May Inspiration "There Goes The Hood"

It was more than a restaurant, it was a symbol. And in the past decade, the last man standing in a sea of homogeny brought on by outsiders visiting the East Village on the weekends; dabbling in the hip, artistic, and edgy. Fact is MAMA'S was the neighborhood. At ten dollars a plate with a choice of meat and three sides, MAMA's was the spot you went for down home comfort. Nestled on 3rd St btw A & B, I walked past this soul food spot daily back in the nineties, sometimes stopping in just for a side of mash potatoes when the city got rough. They had the best veggies too, and if you didn't want meat you could get an extra side with their mac and cheese rivaling no other.

I encourage my yoga students to embrace change, to accept the only constant in our lives is just that. But as my old street in Alphabet City morphs into more and more sameness - that chain store, homogenized look that plagues our country - I have to cry out, 'Why this hood!?' Why the spot where artists flocked to so they could be different and accepted? With the fortune tellers, druggies, and performance artists singing their tunes, graffiti walls and dive bars that embrace all kinds... Why must the demographic who desires sameness, who feels more comfortable in an OLIVE GARDEN than an authentic Italian dive invade the one place on the planet where we screwed the Man?

Those who infest the East Village on the weekends are in no way supporting the community and those who inhabit it. They leave and go back to their commutes and cubicles, and tell stories about how they had a 'crazy' weekend in the village. We lived there, many old-schoolers still do. It's our home, and place's like MAMA'S, or the old KING'S PHARMACY replaced by a DUANE READE were our pride, our joy and choice to remain original, authentic to ourselves. Most moved to the East Village against their society's wishes. To a far away land where parentals did not understand paying a thousand dollars a month for a shoebox apartment on Ave C, but we did and sacrificed to be there. The natives know the secret to Alphabet City is its character, its funkiness, and constant groove we so adore. With the closing of MAMA'S, I dare say...there goes the hood.

PEACE,

Archived Inspirations

on Growth

The Hummingbird Feeder

The most magical thing happened this summer. I put up a hummingbird feeder. As instructed I mixed one part sugar to four parts water, filled the feeder, and hung it just outside my back door next to a brightly colored string of lights. Then I waited… I had seen them round before, one of my neighbors put feeders in the courtyard last summer and hung little glass hummingbirds in the trees to attract them. I looked every day to see if the mixture had lowered. At first there was nothing. No sign, not a one. Then one midsummer day I was reading; head resting at the edge of my futon toward the back door and I heard the most incredible sound - or maybe more like felt it. …The vibration, the energy-- of this tiny, tiny creature. I looked to the feeder and matched the creature to the vibe, the chirp. Throughout that lazy afternoon I read The Harvard Psychedelic Club as hummingbirds flocked to my feeder, flapping their wings fifty to ninety times per second. And I heard during courtship - up to two hundred… Like a blur they move their wings, so magical that we can't quite take them in at once.

"Hummers," my Daddy texted when I shared my news, "are very interesting. Enjoy them." During these past weeks the joy I've experienced when I hear or feel one arriving is awesome. One day I had a whole conversation with one. The bird just hung out flapping in front of me, looking back at me. Now as I sit and write I'm hearing them gathering round, feeding their spirits. I can't even keep the mixture filled these days, they love it here. I finished my nonfiction out back the day a pair of hummers started dive bombing, dancing, and swinging upside down while I read. It takes me back to mornings at my grandparents; looking out the window at breakfast in the Arizona kitchen. My grandmother would stop mid conversation for a hummingbird, for a chance to communicate with these divine creatures. I remember she would make that sound. The sound of the hummer; a squeak almost, high-like their vibration and energy.

Grace was my grandmother's name, and these days it feels like she's all around. I meditate now to the sound of the birds in the morning. Sometimes before I wake I hear them buzz into the feeder and smile - half asleep, graced by their presence. Charged every so often with a visit from such a fine being; a reminder of the greater connection… and magic in wings.

Summer Love,