Christine

I hadn't even met her and I knew I was going to love her. Her name was Christine and that was all I needed. She came back to work after a yoga retreat in Mexico about a week after I started at Scholastic, her skin: bronze, her demeanor: zen, her mouth: the same as mom's. And so it began.

Christine has answered all of my questions since I've met her, whether she knows it or not. From the most inane work-related questions ("How do I tell the publisher where the files are on our ftp site?") to the deepest love-related questions ("How come my heart feels like it dropped on the ground in a bloody puddle, while in mid-air shattered into ten thousand pieces, and afterwards was eaten by a ravenous boy?") and then all the questions in between, the over-arching one being "How do I fall in love with New York?" How do I get involved with local-eating? Where is the best place for a cartwheel in Prospect Park? How do I hula-hoop? How do I roll a cigarette? Why is everything so heavy all of a sudden? Who should my gynecologist be? Who should my dentist be? Where do I find the best Thai food in Dumbo, in Cobble Hill, in Soho? What do I do about this new pain in my neck? Do the B and the D really go express after Broadway/Lafayette? Where did my sanity go when I fell into the well of corporate America? Is it okay to cry, at any time, anywhere? What is the best Radiohead album? Where should I stay if I go to Belgium?

What am I going to do without you?

Amidst answering all of these questions, Christine somehow came up with a few questions of her own for me. What is that "Marching Bands of Manhattan" song and who is it by and why haven't I heard of them before? What time do you want to eat lunch? Want to come over and eat food? Are you using condoms? Want to go to the beach? Where is the most peaceful, beautiful, incredible place to go in Thailand, and should I take a bus or a train? Will you help me celebrate? Will you help me move?

As I watched Christine prepare herself for a potentially endless journey to the Pacific, I could feel the pieces of me, the pieces of us, begin to tighten up. Christine taught me how to hug with my heart (leaning to the right, rather than to the left, like everyone does), to walk tall like someone is pulling my chest up with a string, to love fully and unconditionally, to cry, cry, cry. And cry I did, like a baby cries for her mother, as I walked away from Christine a few days ago.

The adventure that awaits you will take turns you can't even imagine. May you crash head-first into the beauty of it, swim deep into the blue of it, climb the rocky crags of it, make sweetsweet love to it, gulp down shot after tequila shot of it, and write me when you can.