The worn path

I skirt one side of Jamaica Pond where the frosted surface is cracked and weakening. The dying ice is not disappearing without a fight, unapologetically turning the first spring breeze back into a biting cold wind, punishing me for over-enthusiasm (shorts) on my first long outdoor run this winter. I continue onto the Riverway, following the Muddy River and her sad march to the Charles River. Centuries ago Brookline was called Muddy River, a time when I imagine the now quiet, shy stream emboldened, meandering as she chose, unaware that a city grew around her. When I was younger, I’d sometimes find myself unwillingly cutting across one of her bridges to get somewhere else; the forgotten core of Olmstead’s Emerald Necklace, shallow, turbid waters barely covering tires, shopping carts, and other trash, invasive grasses attacking her flanks. She has been squeezed through tunnels, filled with our city’s grime and yet she persists. A few years ago, pregnant with early spring rains, she raged across manmade restrictions and flooded much of the Fenway. The state and Army Corps took notice. She will no longer be jammed underground through narrow culverts, creeping through the dark burrows of our city. The project to “daylight” the Muddy River is an acknowledgment that a return to a less engineered state will benefit both the natural and built environment. It took an act of her unrestrainable force to help everyone see that this exposed version of herself is right, true, and brings her back to a more natural and therefore innocent (or less destructive) state.

After the Boston Marathon last April, you could say a lot of us experienced some daylighting. But it wasn’t a gradual, methodical removal of constraints and expectations: it was harsh, it was instantaneous, and it was permanent. Over the years I’ve learned the importance of salvaging from the wreckage of losses. The heightened awareness and sensitivity that accompanies the suffering from a deep loss is what allowed me to understand that there was in fact something to salvage. It was the intensity, vulnerability, and hopelessness that followed the loss that gave me the ability to be open to anything. It’s not about lowering expectations, although it sometimes feels that way. It was more about desperation leading to the acceptance of every possibility.

The path I've been on since the last Boston Marathon has felt true and authentic, and after losing my mom, going separate ways with my fiancé, almost losing my home, and then going through the marathon experience last year, it is also a path that feels broken in, like I’ve been creating it this whole time without realizing it or, as if it was here before I even existed. I slipped into this meandering course after a lifetime of being manipulated and engineered to fit an idea of what was “right.”

Last year I wrote about my experiences during and after the marathon. How I felt like so many things came together in a way to preserve my safety and health and yet I couldn’t attribute them to any one source or explanation. After that experience, I placed my faith in whatever had created it. This summer I transitioned into trusting the path I was on and with that, opening my mind to anything that crossed it. This manifested itself in a myriad of experiences during that time, which can only be described as what Carl Jung called "meaningful coincidences." While they were occurring I kept thinking "what are the chances?!" I’ve had these experiences sporadically before, usually while in Croatia. I have no doubt it’s part of the reason I feel so bound to the place. But finally this summer I stopped chalking them up to luck and started accepting these gifts with an expectation that they would continue. And they did.  

Getting off the ferry from Hvar in stifling hot, bustling Split, I decided not to attempt to make the bus that was leaving in 2 minutes for the airport. The previous few weeks spent with my family and friends, as well as connecting with complete strangers in the most unpredictable but perfect ways, left me in synch with a rhythm the universe was providing, and it was much slower than what I was used to. There would be another bus in 20 minutes anyway. So I welcomed the midday sun, found a bench along the water, and cracked open a beer I had in my bag. I looked out at the chaotic harbor and thought about how I had never felt more connected to other people across our tiny planet as I did at that moment watching the frantic crossroads of this city. My experiences over the last few weeks had left me feeling hopeful for what the next day would bring.  All those ships crossing paths with people aboard who had more connections to each other than they even knew.

“Um, oprostite?” I opened my eyes and lifted my sunglasses off my nose at the person obstructing the sun.  I smiled.  The guy was tall, blue-eyed, and although not obviously so, American. “Um, pivo?” He pointed at my gigantic can of beer, making some sort of international gesture for beer. He was laughing at himself now and tried again, “English?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome. Where did you get that gigantic can of beer?”

“I always travel with a gigantic can of beer in my bag. You could probably get one over there.” I pointed at the newsstand across the street, directly behind where I was sitting.

“Thanks so much!” I laughed to myself as he disappeared across the street as quickly as he had appeared to block my sun. It was like the universe was playing some kind of wonderful game with me. Then a minute later the same guy jumped over the back of the bench and sat down next to me, cracking open his own can of beer. David. He was American as well, traveling alone, but picking up friends along the way. He guessed that I was from the Midwest and I made a snarly face. Then he guessed New England and I gave him a look that suggested he should have guessed that first. He was too. Boston? Like real Boston, or like Methuen? Brookline. No shit. He whipped out his driver’s license (that looked like someone or something had taken a bite out of it) to prove it. We talked for about fifteen minutes until I had to catch my bus to the airport. I looked him in the eye and told him how nice it had been to meet him and he looked back at me knowing I meant it. To experience the ease with which we can be kind to one another left me wondering why we would ever choose any other path. 

This was only one of so many moments that by the end of my trip left me feeling like I was locked into everyone and everything in our small world. I knew the universe would keep on giving and I would only succeed in maintaining this connection if I continued to accept. Nothing on this path could be lost. Saying goodbye to David and so many of the other folks I met over the months after the marathon felt temporary. Like we could just as easily meet again. Just as some people choose to judge, draw conclusions, or be cold to complete strangers rather than being kind, sometimes the idea of something being unachievable or impossible is easier for us to manage than the idea of everything being possible. But I think in fact that is our reality.

I realized that despite any common cause, these experiences meant something to me and were meant to happen. They confirmed that an accepting, ready, willing, open mind is our purest state, like removing the culverts, and allowing ourselves to flood to our natural banks. The possibilities are there for all of us. There are so many. Take your pick.