I am writing from the 21st floor of a corner apartment on the edge of Somerville, Massachusetts. I am here for the month with my daughter, who is working with a trusted OCD therapist. I’m writing a memoir about my experience parenting someone with severe OCD, including the ridiculous lengths we’ve had to travel to find skilled practitioners.
I want to tell you what it’s been like living in the sky and what it’s teaching me about writing and life.
While we look out on the Charles River, our view is decidedly urban. From our kitchen, we can see a casino and across from that, the broad, flat roof of Costco. From our living room, downtown Cambridge appears in the distance and in the middle ground, highways and bridges, commuter trains and the T.
Something is always in motion. The lights are always on.
We can also see a recycling plant, where a fire broke out last week and sent billowing, black clouds of toxic smoke into the sky. It was horrifying to watch. As a writer, you cannot look away from the mess we have made of the earth. You can’t pretend it does not exist.
But there is also this: the vast sky above that changes moment by moment.
The orange streaks of sunrise are never the same. Weather drifts in and out all day. Fog appears in the morning and dissipates by afternoon. The sky is never boring. Hovering above the concrete world is the great unknown, an energy source you can always tap. If you wake up to it, it can feed your writing and your life.
In the great sanctuary of the sky lies infinite possibilities to heal and create.