Turning Over a New Leaf
New beginnings and new chapters—literally.
Starting in September 2022, I began a year-long floral self-portrait series to document my first year in New York. This is the May entry, “Turning Over a New Leaf.”
It was May 29—balmy, breezy, and two days before the month was over. As time has dragged on and I’ve begun to be more…social, I find that I am often running down the clock on the monthly deadline to create a new portrait. So, that morning, I slipped my gardening shears into my tote bag and headed to Prospect Park to do some stealth gardening. Originally, I had envisioned something with peonies or roses, but part of the fun is working with whatever is available where I happen to be.
I got off at the Fort Hamilton Parkway stop on the F train and entered the park from the south entrance, walking around the lake when I saw the tree. Until that point, nothing had spoken to me. Only tired grass, pollen so heavy I had lost count of my sneezes, and some wild (though unremarkable) bush had crossed my path. But as I rounded the corner, ready to give up and clip some flowers from said unremarkable bush, I spotted the luscious, generous petals in the distance, white as a clean sheet of paper. After peering around me and trying to discreetly clip—though my shears are bright pink—I high tailed it out like a bandit, praying the flowers wouldn’t wilt on the hour trek back to my apartment.
The concept of a blank page, fresh slate, new chapter have been on my mind lately. Firstly, because I find it a bit of a paradox. Scientifically speaking, white is all colors on the spectrum—so is it really blank? Maybe these surfaces are more so waiting for someone to come along and pull out the color—and the story. And, secondly, because I feel like I’m stepping into one. Maybe I’m stepping into many.
For starters, it’s been 10 months in New York. It feels like I just got here, but it also feels like it’s been a hot minute. I have a routine. I have tentative friends. I don’t need a GPS to go to the grocery store anymore. I have a regular café whose owner remembers my order (!). This is a story that’s cresting into the second act. The groundwork is there, so where is it taking me?
But then, there is a literal fresh page being turned. For as long as I’ve been alive, I’ve wanted to write a novel. Not just write a novel, publish a novel. I haven’t had any idea what it would be, until now. I remember someone telling me once that when he (now nearing 50) was in his 20s, he wanted to be a writer but wasn’t tortured enough. I laughed then. I’m not laughing now, because I understand. The experiences of the last five years have been the cornerstone of an idea that’s just coming to synthesis. And that’s where things get a little more wild.
On a whim, I applied to a writer’s residency/workshop at a well-known arts & cultural institution in the city. It’s a year-long commitment with the end result being a finished (or near-finished) novel and the opportunity to meet an agent. When I found out about the program, I figured I had nothing to lose, but I wasn’t expecting much—I applied three days before the deadline with the fifteen pages of an idea. Then, two weeks ago (at the time that I drafted this), I learned I was one of 10 selected, and thus I’ve kissed every Wednesday evening until May 2024 goodbye.
When I saw these flowers in Prospect Park, they reminded me of a blank page, the way the paper feels when you crack open a new book. They’re also fragile…like this dream I’m chasing. I’ve told myself that whatever happens, whether or not it gets published in the end, I’m writing this for myself. I’m writing to forgive, to reconcile, to ask for forgiveness. And, to finally say that I’ve finished something. Here’s to turning over a new leaf. (Or petal.)
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