Captured by Flushing

Flushing, Queens, New York City, New York.

I’ve been there once before, to the neighborhood called Flushing. It was back in 2002, on a Spring Break trip with friends from my university. We spent a week there, and I only recall glimpses of that time, but somehow, it won its way into my heart.

I remember hearing that Flushing, Queens is the most diverse neighborhood in the entire world. Now, I know that at least 127 languages are spoken there. I recall the multi-cultural group of guys from that church on the corner who hosted us. I remember the shalom of sitting in the local Italian dive down the street more than once, with the Italian cook and that server whom we befriended. I can see myself walking from the subway station exit down that street, every ten steps experiencing a new culture: people, signs, shops, foods, words. A tour of the world in a city block’s walk. I recollect satisfyingly taking in the very diverse congregation at the church service we attended. The memory of my week in Flushing is somehow imprinted in me with romantic nostalgia, fondness that feels personal, longing that I cannot quite articulate.

I’m captured by Flushing. I journaled about her on the plane yesterday, as I descended on New York City once more, ten years later. I want to visit her again.

Color. Smells. Every sense alive. Life on life on life. Beauty and difference. Uniqueness and original design both celebrated and fought against. Clashes and harmony. Different-shaped puzzle pieces all composing one neighborhood’s score. Real, vulnerable, exposed: “here I am” embodied in diverse people after people going about life in the very same space. Complicated. Multi-faceted and shining with newness in every degree of tilt. Dirty. Absolutely glorious.

Perhaps I feel that Flushing reflects what I see inside of me.

And inside of Him.

I am captured.

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