In Defense of Yearning and Sending it On (Word to D’Angelo)
I’ve been in this era of contending with missing the bus. In my last blog, I told y’all I never finished The Artist Way and I never will (I still stand on that). But, the part I did read was about how to know if you really missed your metaphoric “bus” as a creative. Basically, the author says that the only way to know if you missed your bus is if you run and try to catch the bus with all your might. I’m talkin’ knees to mothefucking CHEST all out sprint towards that bus. And if right as you’re about to catch it, huffing and puffing, lungs exploding—the door closes… then it wasn’t your bus to catch. Release it. Let it go. Rejoice in what has missed you, and have the patience to wait for the next one, which may be your real bus after all.
Sitting on the bus in NYC is how I fell back in love with D’Angelo. I had always loved him since I was a kid, swaying in the kitchen on Sunday mornings, but one day, I was on the bus, and the rain was pounding on the window, and 'Send It On' started playing, and whew, baby, did I feel the yearning.
You can't disguise your emotions, baby
You know that I see in your eyes
Your soul's in me, your soul's somethin' that I feel inside
Tell me what will I do, baby?
Tell me what will I do
Send it on back to you
Send it right back to you
I’ve always admired D’Angelo for knowing when to walk away as an artist. He was never worried about missing his bus. He never chased. Five years passed between Brown Sugar and Voodoo, unthinkable in our current world of overconsumption and profit over everything. And yet, he was right on time. Every time. ‘Send it on’ was the first song he composed for Voodoo.
D’Angelo did an interview right before he went on tour, where he talked about the inspiration for the album title. The interviewer asked if there was anything else he wanted the audience to know that he hadn’t already mentioned, and he chose to discuss the power of music—how it acts as a spiritual bridge to another realm. Hypnotic in nature. Something that moved him so deeply that he must bear witness. He must be obedient to what it calls him to create. He must return to it again and again, and bring the wisdom of the years in between back to this site of love. Watching the interview made me think about the person I’ve ever loved the most in my life, who lives in NYC. Five years of yearning. Five years of witnessing. Five years of bad timing. A bus we keep missing. Shit, more than buses, like 2 ships passing in the night. The knowing that we are there, and just out of reach. For reasons both known and unknown.
I recently visited New York after moving a year and a half ago. I left in a frenzy with a broken heart and not really saying goodbye to the place I called home for nearly five years. I had just gone through a breakup, I hadn’t been consistently employed for nine months, and the money (alongside my sanity) was running out baby. I was ready to leave, but wasn’t quite ready to let go. Despite that, I packed up my whole life and moved back to Los Angeles. I’m so glad I did. My life has blossomed in the most raw, beautiful, and unexpected ways. I’ve accomplished things back home that would have never been possible for me in NYC. I’m happier, healthier in mind, body, and spirit, and the most confident and at peace with myself I’ve ever been. It has arguably been one of my better decisions to leave New York, and yet I yearn for her. Deeply. Since I’ve left, I’ve had the urge to send it on. To return. To bring the wisdoms from my new life back to this site of love.
The thing about leaving is that it gives room to nostalgia. Our memories become short with the laundry list of bad, and quickly we fill our hearts and minds with what we loved so dearly about a place that almost ruined us. In the time I’ve been gone, I started to romanticize NYC and the things and people I left behind. I think what I missed the most was what living in the city said about what was possible for me. I wasn’t ready to let go of the possibility. The spiritual bridge to this version of me, which I felt existed only in my mind’s eye. Only in this city. Only in these flashes of memory that are sprinkled throughout screechy traincars and sunset walks by the Hudson River. I yearn for it almost daily. To be her again.
Work took me to NYC in early October. I kind of always knew that coming back would happen this way. I wouldn’t have to chase; it would just find me at the right time, and when the opportunity presented itself, I decided to make the most of it. I had 24 hours and a dream to make good on this return trip. To make, what I thought would be my final goodbye, meaningful. I wanted to visit all of my old haunts, and I wanted to see the person I loved most, who lives in NYC. I figured if there was anything left to hold on to despite our most recent goodbye, it would reveal itself on this trip. I texted them “Hi ___ I’ll be at this location at this time on this day.” And I sent it on.
As luck would have it, there was a cataclysmic rainstorm in these 24 hours. Still, I was determined. I bought a cheap ass umbrella from the corner store, had ‘Feel Like Makin Love’ blasting in my ears, and with wet toes in my socks, I ran to catch my bus. ‘Feel Like Makin Love’ slipped into ‘Untitled’ and with rain pounding on the window, I remembered all over again how it felt to be in love through D’Angelo’s eyes.
My first stop was the cafe where I became an author, Dear Mama. I half expected to see all of the people I knew who used to work there and be able to exchange hugs and niceties, catch up on all that has changed. Right when I walked in, I noticed the layout was different. The menu was different. I didn’t know any of the kids behind that counter. I ordered my latte quietly as a stranger to this world that had once been mine. Then, finally, I saw Rob.
Rob was one of the managers at Dear Mama. He always greeted me with a “hey, sweetie!” and more times than not, would let me stay past closing to get the last few lines of a new poem in, feeding me free cookies to keep my creative juices flowing. My eyes lit up when I saw him, ready for the embrace. Ready, for the “sweetie” and maybe a warm cookie for old times’ sake. I saw him walking towards my table, and just as I got ready to say hello, my voice caught in my throat. He walked past me. scruffed past my table with a gruff “ ‘scuse me.” He didn’t even recognize me. I sat there, shocked. You would think this would have devastated me, but honestly, it freed me. I started chuckling at the enlightenment because I finally got it.
Lord, only knows how far that I will fall behind
Gotta find a better place, find a better space
So that I, So my life may be the one reason why, baby
This world had continued on without me. Leaving was such a major milestone in my life. My world had stopped, and I half expected the world I left behind to stop with me. When I landed in NYC, I had this healing fantasy that this world would resume exactly where I had paused it. Because I had the final say on when to let go, but really, this world had already let go of me. And rightfully so, we had both moved on. This realization did terrible things for my God complex, but it also made me feel small in the best way. In a humbling way. In a way that reminded me of the responsibility of my thread. I was merely a singular thread in the larger fabric alongside everyone who has had the spiritual experience of once calling New York home. I wrote the first poem I had written since my brother’s accident that day. In the same cafe where it all began. It was different, and I was different, but it was still my bridge, and my magic belonged to me.
I had two more stops on this here bus tour. The first was my old apartment in Harlem. One of the reasons I knew I was supposed to come to NYC was because I rented this apartment sight unseen in June of 2020. The middle of COVID. My first time living alone and having a place of my own. I packed my whole life into two suitcases and hopped onto that flight, not knowing what was waiting for me on the other side. When I got to my block, right outside my front door, at the bus stop, my initials were carved into the sidewalk “ATG.” I took a picture. That picture became the first poem in my first chapbook, which I self-published and wrote the majority of in Dear Mama. Tell me what will I do, baby? Tell me what will I do? Send it on back to you. Send it right back to you.
Next was my favorite bar in Harlem, the Honeywell. The place I had told them to meet me at. Our last stop. I was nervous because they hadn’t responded, which wasn’t like them. But in defense of yearning, I said I would wait outside the bar for 15 minutes to see if they showed up. The moments clicked by, the rain got heavier, and the soundtrack of Voodoo faded to Olivia Dean’s Couple Minutes—as if my life could not get any more dramatic. They never showed up. And I never got my goodbye or my new hello. It hurt, but I understood why. I went inside the bar to lick my wounds and recover from the all-out sprint that still resulted in missing the bus yet again. The bartender asked if I was still waiting for the other person in my party, and I confidently said no. I wasn’t waiting anymore. I was letting the doors close. He gave me a free drink and shot, saying I was too pretty to be stood up, and he was damn right.
I picked the Honeywell because this bar was a part of my becoming, and I knew whether that person showed up or not, this place could hold me. Letting go of the person you’ve loved the most is similar to saying goodbye to a city that was once home. It is painful and nostalgic, and it is hard. There is an infancy and a hopefulness as you allow yourself to be caught in the hypnosis of love, of the story, of what that love working out would say about what was possible for you. I sat there so angry at myself for not understanding why I still couldn’t let this thing go, why I still yearned. Why I still chased after this bus even though my lungs were exploding. I left the bar with my head down.
The wind had picked up, and the raindrops doubled in size. To no one's surprise, my cheap ass umbrella decided to break at that moment, when I had a mile walk back to my hotel. I took cover at a bus stop, defeated and tired, in the middle of a torrential downpour. I couldn’t tell where the raindrops ended, and my tears began. I rubbed the water off my face, smearing my mascara, and looked up, hoping for a sign. To my surprise, I was staring at the restaurant where that person and I had first reconnected with each other again in 2019, Mama Sushi. You would think this would have devastated me, but honestly, it freed me. I started chuckling at the enlightenment because I finally got it. On the same street where it all began, my story had quite literally come full circle. The moment was different, and I was different, but it was still my bridge, and although the possibility of this love was over, the magic of it still belonged to me.
Whenever you want to
Send it on
When it gets cold, babe
Send it on
Cold outside
Send it on
All your dreams
Send it on
There is an over-saturation of letting go narratives in our culture. I’ve internalized the content myself. That I am worth nothing if I cannot master the art of letting go. That we must let go of everything because nothing actually belongs to us. I fundamentally reject that. The day in the cafe solidified it for me. I didn’t need to let go. I didn’t need to say goodbye. I needed to realize that this city, this person I loved, is of me. These experiences have integrated into my being. They have made me who I am, shaped my obedience to creation, and influenced what I choose to bear witness to in this lifetime. I can Send It On as many times as I choose because these moments have become pieces of my soul. They are something I will always feel inside. My yearning is my personal bridge to this other realm, where I became who I was always meant to be. Who I was destined to be. Who I would have never been without New York City, and the Robs, the Dear Mamas, the Honeywells, and the loves I left behind. I chased the hell out of that bus of living in NYC, and the doors still closed. It’s time I have the patience to wait for the next one. To rejoice in what has missed me, but is still part of me somehow. My actual bus is on its way. I am in awe of the waiting required in love and what no longer chasing makes possible for me.
Here’s the poem I wrote that day. May it guide you to your bridge. May it help you Send It On.
this city is of me, and not at all.
my old haunts
have not even noticed my
absence
i think
it’s time to move,
on. from the expectation that
i must leave anything behind.
moreover, i am wondering.
if it’s more about collecting
the pieces, and turning
the nothingness into somethingness to
say, hello again
in this new way where who i am now
lifts the wool from my eyes and kisses
me softly on the cheek as a thank you for
being
here in this god forsaken city. that molded
my heart to be able to say yes. more now
than it ever has, while …
being
ok with the no’s and neverminds
the remnants left behind
turned to ash,
evaporated with the wind.
to be reabsorbed into a future
somebody’s, somethingness.
They are a part of me.
Collecting,
molting,
shedding,
gathering the bravery,
to be born again.
