Boston Strong

April 17th, 2013

Over the past few hours, Boston has been on a broken roller-coaster.  What was a terrorist bombing Monday became yesterday’s stories of loss, condition, and compassion.  Yet this afternoon reminded us here that despite the world’s sentimentalism and exhaustion, the ride is still going bat-shit crazy and we’re all still aboard.  The headlines and stories were dropping one after another: suspect in custody; poisoned letter sent to White House; bomb threat; courthouse evacuation; abandoned car; hospital evacuation; suspect not in custody; fire on subway tracks; suspicious package tossed onto the Red Line.  The threat hasn’t stopped.  The media is waving speculation as though taunting starving dogs with a bone; if they calmed the fuck down that would be their greatest contribution right now.

People on the ground have to go on.  Today while driving downtown, police stalked every corner and bag inspection tents were set up outside of venues, but if you only saw the people it would feel like nothing happened.  Life goes on.  Help or be on your way.  The many creative ways this city has reached out to support its own have been refreshing and healing.  All the offerings of food, shelter, blood, solace, employment, prayers, and hugs have become fluent throughout the area’s social landscape.  But this scenario is too familiar for me to hope for any lasting positive change to blossom.  We are always our best when we have no choice.  It is in our DNA to work together to survive, and we do so in beautiful ways.

What has been plaguing my mind since this happened is what will materialize when the shock wears off.  What will we become as the pain sinks in?  Or in those moments when we once again feel alone in our suffering?  When we have no answers?  When no one is watching?  Will we digest our rage and fear so it is metabolized into something useful, or will we implode?  Will familiar faces become suspect?  Will we continue to stand so united when the day-to-day returns, or will we feed on one another’s differences?

Lovely, gracious, powerful.  Such aspects of humanity can arise from these situations – but it does make for one steep, dark descent if we fall.  I want to believe we are stronger than that.  People around the country are already unraveling on one another over this, but Bostonians do not share their convenience of distance and for now they are sticking together.  If this is what defines being ‘Boston strong’, then let it be a permanent lesson to all of us in what we will become rather than some moment of ephemeral tenderness from who we once were.

Bumpkin Solace

March 6th, 2013

Ways a country bumpkin can find solace in the big city:

Keep a kite on you at all times (backpack, trunk, etc.).  You never know where you’ll be when the wind picks up.

Introduce yourself to the trees in your neighborhood and visit them regularly.

Move at your own pace (mine is molasses).  Let the rush and chaos of urban dwellers flow around you like a stream does a heavy rock. The more weighted down you are with your own intention and movement, the less you will get tossed around.

Be prepared to be the last one eating if joining some locals, and don’t take it personally if you are abandoned at the table to finish on your own.  It’s common here for people to move on quickly before allowing their food to settle.

If you can, get a pet so you have a companion.

Look people in the eyes.  It helps curb the feeling of being invisible.  » Read the rest of this entry «

Silent Song

February 20th, 2013

“Don’t go anywhere,” my wife says.

We are slow dancing in the kitchen. I was late for work twenty minutes ago, she has been coding in front of the computer for hours by now and is still in her pajamas.

“Ah ah, boo. Stay with me.”

The curve of her back fits perfectly in my palm. I am not aware of my other hand or her fingers wrapped gently around it. We are moving in step to a silent mutual rhythm.  Every time she speaks I am drawn back to her eyes: auburn, sparkling, kind. Looking into them while knowing they are looking into me, seeing me as I am right now, and still wanting to stay for this dance fills me with gratitude. She reminds me of how good it can feel to be alive in my skin.

The joy is fleeting, but not diminished, as my mind returns back to the narrative playing in the background. It is dark, depleting, and violent. Another flashback has decided to join us.

We keep dancing. My body wants to stay present while my mind meanders back into the past to figure something out that’s necessary right now.  I don’t know its reason or its urgency to interrupt this morning.  I keep in step, trying to figure out if there’s ever been a way to balance such stark contrasts of reality in a single moment while honoring both.  I’m still not sure it’s possible.

My wife watches my eyes go distant and helps. “Ah ah,” she coaxes. “Stay here with me.”

Whatever it is that I need to do to live with these things, it is worth the dance.

© Mayme Snow

Supermoon 5/5/12

February 17th, 2013

Since moving to Boston, I have found myself without a fiesta to celebrate the revered holiday of Cinco de Mayo as we did in CO.  So this past year I hung up my poncho and headed to Carson Beach with the wife to watch the Supermoon of 2012 rise over the water.  However, as soon as we arrived, a massive wall of fog enveloped the entire area until we could no longer see the parking lot from the sand.  While we didn’t get to see the moon come up that night, it did make for some cool shots across the street where the trees, streetlights, and dandelions provided a surreal scene in which time seemed to stop somewhere between day and night.  Later on, I awoke to find the clouds breaking as moonlight poured through the windows.  I grabbed the camera and hit the deck.

Looking Back: 9/1/10, 8:27pm

February 13th, 2013

My first night alone on the beach

I can’t believe this is home
here
where I can cool off my feet in
the black night ocean
as every approaching swell seems to be
a wink
a tease
of whether or not I will be consumed
into fluid nothingness

The Boston skyline lazily stands behind us
while planes leaving Logan
cross the Harbor like falling stars
stuck on rewind
lighthouses in the horizon blink morse code
“tag, you’re it”

There is an immigrant man sitting in his car
door open
mariachi blaring on the fuzzy AM
and I wonder how far he needs to daydream
before he, too,
can feel at home.

© Mayme Snow

Scenes from the ’13 Blizzard in Boston

February 9th, 2013

On the morning of the storm, Boston was a ghost town. I dug a path to the sidewalk, just far enough to step out and look down the street, before standing there to experience the stillness. The trees were rigidly frozen, allowing the wind to howl and whistle from all different directions. The only other souls in sight were the finches; no storm could keep them from congregating for the early morning gossip. Snow danced down the street and up against buildings like courting whirlwinds. It was nice to experience what Boston is without the rush, noise, and craziness of people hitting the daily grind – even if it only happens every 35 years. It was too soon before the plows and snowblowers drowned out the windsong, but for a moment at least I got to listen.

Anointment

January 28th, 2013

On the morning of my 33rd birthday, I went to Race Point just outside Provincetown to watch the sunrise.  I realized while tossing and turning in bed that I had never seen the colors of day break stretch across the open waters of the sea, so rather than try to salvage any more sleep I decided to take advantage of the fleeting hour before dawn and get my butt to the beach.  Cape Cod had been blanketed by snow the night before.  The thick clouds were still rolling low in the sky when I started the car, trees bent and cracked in the wind, and thin snowflakes doted the windshield like lipstick from blown kisses.  The chance was perfect.

When I arrived at the beach I quickly learned that I was the only soul in sight.  Snow drifts nestled into the dunes making the landscape a barren calico of sand, powder, grass, and drift wood.  The Atlantic wind bit my eyes and cheeks as its gusts led the sea in a feverish dance.  Waves crashed in roaring laughter while a flock of seagulls stood in mourning around a dead beloved.  It was a good morning for a funeral.

I walked along the creeping tide as it reached out and teased my feet.  Beyond the coast the water was as dark as midnight.  I headed eastward towards the horizon.  The entire sky, save for a sliver to the West, was full of snow clouds that had no intention of moving along any time soon.  For a half-hour I perused this beach in the most sincere sense of solitude one could imagine.  I had never had the sea all to myself.  Every step was an unspoken dialogue between us and I was humbled to be alone in such company.  Sometimes I would stop and listen after each stride, other times I broke out into a full run so my lungs could lap up the cold air.   » Read the rest of this entry «

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