Walk Journals: September 14 (Walking is Good for the Heart)

I'm walking in Boston today.  I arrived late yesterday afternoon for a weekend getaway.  It's MixFest 2013, a free concert in the park sponsored by Mix 104.1, a Boston radio station.  I was here last year too.  Because, if you haven't guessed by now, Gavin DeGraw is one of the performers.  But that's for a different set of thoughts and impressions ...

I'm looking forward to spending time with my daughter too.  But she's pretty busy, having started a new job this week.

I'd wanted to walk last night when I arrived but just as I checked in, it began to pour.  My hotel is attached to a shopping mall ... so that's where I walked.  Except that shopping doesn't qualify aerobically and carrying bags isn't exactly weight training.

So I roust myself out of bed early for a Saturday and set off for the Public Garden, my favorite place to stroll.  Along the way, I pass Tico, the restaurant where my daughter had worked until recently.  I've eaten there a few times now and I really like the menu.  It's one of several restaurants owned by chef Michael Schlow and even though she's not with that restaurant group any more, I'll likely continue to drop in for margueritas and lobster tacos.  And the fried manchego cheese.  No wonder I need these walks ...

In the park I head for the 9/11 Memorial.  It's only a couple of days past the anniversary and so it's only fitting that I spend a minute or two there.  When I come upon the low granite wall with all of the names of local people who perished in New York that day, I am unprepared for the flowers and wreathes that are lovingly placed there.  I don't know why ... of course there'd be lots of flowers this week.  There are often small bunches of flowers left there but I've never seen the whole wall lined with them like this.  I stop to photograph the name of the one whose name is inscribed here whom I knew.  His family attended my church.  I remember his rambunctious, smart, curious boys--they were so little then.  They must be teenagers now.  Maybe in college.  I offer a silent prayer for them and their mom.

Making my way to the other end of the park, I glance up at the Four Seasons, wondering if my favorite singer is staying there.  I'm not sure but I have my suspicions--forensic tweet reading from last year points that way.  I'm listening to the song he released this week as I walk, Who's Gonna Save Us.  Standing at the traffic light, waiting to cross over to the Boston Common I notice a lady glancing sideways at me.  Suddenly I realize I'm singing along.  Aloud.  As in out loud.  Loud being the operative word.  I shrug.  This isn't the first time people have been unwittingly been subjected to my voice (which actually isn't that bad ...).  Although I majored in music, I went out of my way to not sing--especially solo--the entire four years I was in college.  I've just never felt that strong in the vocal department.

Narrow old steps lead from street level up to The Marliave

I pass through the Common.  It's not as pretty as the Public Garden but hugely historic.  Little shelters are being set up for some community event and food vendors are already grilling giant slabs of meat and more.  There are homeless folks sleeping in small groups everywhere.  It's disheartening to see but Boston is no different than any other community and we, as a people, haven't given the issue of homelessness the attention it needs and deserves.  I think I'm headed in the direction of my daughter's new place of employment, The Marliave.  But, even though I'm a Girl Scout Leader, I head off in two wrong directions before deciphering the map in my phone correctly.  Good thing I've never had to teach orienteering.  I finally find the right route and before long I'm standing in front of a really old building in one of the oldest parts of town.  The Marliave is a French restaurant named for it's founder, a Parisian immigrant who opened the establishment in 1885.  It's in a narrow street, Province Street, once known as Governor's Alley as it was the route between the Statehouse, a block or two away, and the residence of the Governor of the Massachusetts Colony before the Revolution.  I marvel at my daughter's opportunity to be working in such a historic venue--at all the ghosts that must linger in these cobblestone streets.

The tomb of Paul Revere

While finding the restaurant I'd passed the historic Granary Burying Ground where Paul Revere is buried.  I decide to take a side trip through the site and learn that several signers of the Declaration of Independence, Samuel Adams, Ben Franklin's parents and many other folks of historic significance are buried there too.  The headstones are tightly packed with tiny child-sized headstones layered close to their parents'. It's a beautiful place filled with stories of the ones who conceived our country and stood up for their experiment called democracy.  It's a place that forces you to be grateful for those men and women who've shared their lives in public service, whether historical or quietly local.  One large tablet simply read:  Freeman Tomb, 1807 Benj. Bangs.  It's positioned right next to Paul Revere's.

Prayers for peace.
Pray for peace.

Looking at my watch, I realize there's not much time before I have to get ready for the concert so I hurry back through the Common and Public Garden.  Across from the Garden is Arlington Street Church, a Unitarian Universalist Congregation.  The church was completed in 1861 and was the first public building in the Back Bay neighborhood of Boston.  I'm struck by the hundreds of ribbons tied to the old wrought iron fence that surrounds the church (like many of Boston's beautiful churches).  Randomly I read a few.  They're all tributes to those affected by the bombings the day of the Boston Marathon; they are prayers for peace, for love and for a future free from fear.  Toward the end of the fence, a plastic bag filled with blank ribbons hangs along with a bucket of pens.  It's an invitation for all of us to add our prayers.  I don't stop to add a ribbon but for the second time today, I offer up a silent petition for peace and understanding.

Four and a half miles.  Pretty comfortable ones with barely a trace of sciatic trouble.  Four and a half miles packed with significance, history, proud feelings for someone I love dearly.  Meaningful miles today.

Gosh, I love Boston.

One Perfect Day

Loads of years ago, I read a book that changed the way I perceive time.  It's called Receiving the Day by Dorothy C. Bass.  It's the only book I've read with a highlighter as an adult.  It taught me to think of every day intentionally as a gift.  Bass speaks about the ordered rhythms of each day and how to tune in and really live in each moment.

Here's the part that really profoundly changed how I think about how I want to live my life--it has to do with the Hebrew concept of what is a "day" ... beginning in the evening:

The first part of the day passes in darkness, then, but not in inactivity.  God is out growing the crops even before the farmer is up and knitting together the wound before the clinic opens.  When farmer and physician awake, they will join in, contributing mightily, but only because grace came first.  Likewise, God has been working on and in them, body and mind, while they slept; yesterday's bruises and slights have begun to heal.  Entered this way, morning is new, worth being grateful for even before we have put our human touches on it.

When you think about the day beginning in evening, when you're more apt to slow down and eventually quiet down altogether in sleep, it changes how you see everything.  You realize that waking and working is not the first order of activity and it puts business (busy-ness) in perspective.  It places realtionships, gratitude and grace at the forefront.  It allows renewal in relaxation and rest to be the catalyst for the day rather than the often frantic beginning of days that get started with alarm clocks and racing: to work, to get children to school, to complete too many errands in too short a time.

I feel I've rarely been successful at living this practice--this way of thinking.  I think about it a lot but mostly fail to actually live this way, much as I might yearn to.  Sometimes I consciously try and do succeed, and once in a while, a day will naturally flow from evening to evening and I realize again the wisdom in this rhythm.

I had just such a day last week.  In Boston to visit my daughter, we had an amazing dinner at the first restaurant she worked in while still in school.  It's called Via Matta, a lovely Italian restaurant in the Back Bay.  It's one of several of the restaurants owned by Chef Michael Schlow.  She's currently working between two of his other places, Tico and Barrio Cantina.  There were four us at dinner and we opted for the tasting menu.  The chef prepared many courses of tastes of what he thought we'd enjoy.  We ate magnificent food for what seemed like hours with wine and spirits to go with each course.  The conversation centered mainly on food with my younger foodie companions--pure appreciation for the gifts of these ingredients and the talent that created every plate (thank you Chef Leo!)  My daughter and her friends all work in high-end hospitality venues, restaurants and hotel, and they have a lot of knowledge and appreciation for food that's done well.  It was a meal I'll not soon forget--lovely food and lovelier company.  A relatively simple pleasure elevated ....

The following day at the suggestion of my daughter's friend, I made my way to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in the Fenway neighborhood of Boston.  This incredible building is the realization of a dream of one woman with a stupendous art collection and a desire to share it with the world.  It's impossible to describe the perfection of the combination of architecture and objects that culminate in this place.  Mrs. Gardner brought back so many treasures and works of art from her world travels that only this 3-story palazzo could house them.  At the heart of the space is a courtyard.  When I entered the first floor and stood in the courtyard, I recognized immediately that this would be a memorable afternoon and the beauty of the place would fill my mind for a long time to come.  I'm not a poet or a writer so I'll never find the right words to describe or properly explain the absolutely visceral reaction I had as I explored each succeeding space.  Never before have I been moved to tears by a place.

Mrs. Gardner focused her collecting on those objects and artifacts that fired her imagination, eventually collecting over 25,000 paintings, sculptures, objects d'art, furnishings and textiles.  She arranged them in three floors of gallery spaces in "installations" that were pleasing to her and make utterly perfect sense.  They could not be anywhere but where she placed each one.  Most of the galleries open onto the courtyard, affording a constantly changing perspective of the art-filled garden space.  In the changing light of day, it is its own artwork.

Much of the art found in the museum is religious in nature and from the Renaissance.  But there are pieces from ancient Egypt and others from the 20th century, particularly Impressionist works.  Isabella Stewart Gardner was a patron of John Singer Sargent and portraits he painted of her are hung among the carefully thought out rooms.

I hope everyone who visits Boston has a chance to see this awe-inspiring place at least once.  I can't wait to return.  It was the most spiritual experience I've ever had in a man-made (woman-made) place and yes, I've been to lots of religious spaces and places, including the Vatican.  I think it was because the spirit and generous nature of Isabella Steward Gardner still lives throughout the building, because you can feel how much she wants you to appreciate and understand the messages, cultures and history represented by the objects she collected.

It was 24 hours of grace and appreciation that I will not soon forget.  The sensory joy I experienced that day, evening to evening, was beyond anything I'd planned or could have imagined.