boston in the spring

there’s nothing more discouraging to me than buying a silly little $7 beverage and upon first sip realizing I don’t like it.

If it wasn’t for the public library I wouldn’t choose to spend much time on Boylston.

You don’t have to live here long to understand the implications of walking down Newbury, though we all choose the scenic route sometimes.

Comm Ave can be an epic stroll under the canopy of trees en route to the Commons or a swim upstream the BU students bustling to class depending on how far east or west you find yourself.

Beacon is quiet and luxurious. I had one in office therapy appointment on a chilly Wednesday in December and found myself dreaming about living amongst the cozy brownstones the whole way home.

One more street over and you hit the river, it took me at least 6 months of living here to discover the magic of the Esplanade and cement it as a regular route for my long loop walks when spring finally arrived (then left, then arrived again).

It’s a strange place to find yourself, caught between romanticizing where you are and where you’re going.

While still a feeling of newness lingers, and I do my best to practice presence, I can’t help telling myself stories of what the future holds.

Stories about the next place, the next page, the next chapter— little slip ups constitute forgetting I’m living this part of the story right now. To be immersed in this part of the story is essential in determining your satisfaction with the turn of the page.

I’ve never been as mesmerized and enchanted by spring as I have been in Boston this first year. It wasn’t the first deep breath of fresh air after the coldest of winters— this winter was mild and manageable for the east coast, at least that’s what I’m told.

The weather this spring has been temperamental as far as April goes. The showers have been adamant and aggressive, yet the spatter of early 60 degree days booming with blooming life along all the streets I frequent have been worth every storm.

The city woke up one day with vibrant greens of every shade, the tulips blooming in neat patches, the cherry blossoms flowering for a short magical window.

Even when the rain falls heavily I know its all in service of the flowers and greenery.

No one tells the plants they’re wrong for needing a few rainy days to actualize their fullest potential. No one tells them they should’ve bloomed sooner. The streets feel alive, the park feels alive, the energy of the people all around me feel so alive.

And the marathon, THE Boston Marathon, do marathons make everyone cry everywhere or is it really felt more deeply here? What a whirlwind of a day even as a mere observer. Even at the tail end, after my work day was over, Boylston was still as packed in as a can of sardines. I can’t imagine the pain and euphoria of participating. Nor would I want to, at least not now, that maybe not never.

If marathons are your thing I applaud you, not because marathons make you specifically superior, though some argue that. I applaud you for having a thing and running with it (pun unintended).

‘To each their own’ is a phrase I throw into conversations mindlessly without much thought…almost as a space filler… to avoid an awkward lull or two. Yet it packs a significant punch.

To each their own.

We all have our thing(s), and those change and evolve, that thing can be many things, that thing can be one thing today and something completely different tomorrow.

Yet we fear our differences.

We fear standing out, we fear others judging our thing when it isn’t like theirs.

We judge others in turn when their thing is something we’d never consider for ours. When the ‘thing’ pales in comparison to the feat of running 26.2 miles or checking other societally applauded boxes. We even go as far as trying to convince people we know better than they do when it comes to figuring out what their thing should be.

We’re all guilty to some of this to some degree, it’s human nature, it’s the egos we all have that want so desperately to be special whether in misery or glory.

Special because my thing is better than your thing, special because my thing scares me to pursue and so in the envy of watching you pursue yours, I’ll judge and ridicule you. I’m not saying this is all conscious and intentional but we go through our lives without realizing how much of our own resistance we’re creating.

What if we could let them have their thing and lean in to ours headfirst even if it looks completely different than what others around us are doing?

Because it’s lonely?

Or is it?

Are we just uncomfortable in our alone-ness? Feeling lonely and being alone are not synonymous.

My new favorite word is solitude.

I’m in a season not of loneliness, though I do feel lonely from time to time, but of getting to know the essence of myself I’d long suppressed and ignored for service who I thought I had to be to fit in, to be liked, to survive.

To be in solitude is to reclaim my independence, to focus on what my life feels like day by day rather than how I think it looks to other people.

To decipher my thing from the noise of social media and societal pressure to ‘be successful’ and what other people expect my thing to be.

What if doing your thing— unapologetically and whole-heartedly is your superpower? Your golden ticket to the life you want to live? Even if you can’t possibly predict how or why because you haven’t experienced it yet and don’t have the data for your mind to reference.

Boston this spring has taught me that I can genuinely enjoy my own company. Something I didn’t know I needed, something I didn’t know I’d been so far away from for so long.

Maybe just maybe if I can sit here with myself long enough to know me again, I’ll know my thing and lean into it too.