Whenever I’ve been away from Boston for any substantial stretch of time – which for me means a couple of months – I feel inexplicably shy when I return, like some innocent schoolboy who makes in-roads with potential friends by Friday, only to have them forgotten over a weekend. I also feel like I’ve lost track of the city with all the changes – new restaurants opening, old restaurants closing, new shows playing, old stores moving, and the latest alleged racial profiling incident at the Newbury Hotel. It’s a lot to process.
Somehow, I always feel more innocent in these moments, like I felt when I first moved into the condo way back in 1995 – yes, we are approaching thirty years of Boston life, and still I have moments of feeling like I don’t completely belong. There are benefits to being a novice, a sense of openness lacking from those of us who border on the jaded and wise. To think we already know a place, to think we have mastered anything on this earth, is the surest way to lose sight of seeing, and seeing so much when we think we’ve already seen it all. There is a thrill to taking in a city as if for the very first time.
There is also a thrill to revisiting places that once held significance and meaning, such as this sepia-shaded corner of Copley, where I once kissed a man – the man who was the first man I ever kissed – and it feels more like a dream than a memory, but maybe that’s just a protection device, a mind-trick to ease any residual hurt.
Boston has its memories and mysteries and dreams, all waiting to be discovered, then probed and solved, and sometimes resolved. It just takes a day or two of adjustment, and the discomfort of being an outsider fades away. This trip felt more like a dream anyway, tinged with the romantic notion of finding anniversary places to celebrate – places that appeared only in the night, and only in the spring. Maybe only in my imagination, which lends a danger and a freedom all at once.
Spring was just beginning, and only these snowdrops and some witch hazel bushes were in bloom. It was enough – hope comes from the tiniest places and spaces, while its existence signals something far more powerful and soon-to-be-pervasive at work.
When I arrived at the condo, I was greeted with all the Christas decorations still up, and there is something terribly sad about seeing Christmas decorations in spring. My first act, before even unpacking my bags, was to take all of that down. As I did so I cursed myself for putting it all up in the first place. Such a silly thing to do when so many other things after so much more. It’s how I usually feel, and the summer erases the annoyance so that when. late fall comes I’m ready to do it all over again. How foolish we humans can be.
With the holiday decor put away, and the holiday curtains taken down, the condo opened up, feeling lighter and brighter and ready for spring, along with all the happy things that can happen in the season. My favorite hour was at hand, and sunlight began pouring into the bedroom bay window. Winter already felt far away.
