Long Distance Yearnings

Boston

The sun set here tonight with a lovely display of pink, orange, gray, pure white, blue and purple tones, a reminder that nature is far better at many of the things any of us mere humans try to do with our arts, our businesses, or even our words than we will ever be.

Chalk that up to a religious insight, if you wish.

This city amazes me. It is filled with friendly people, yet its streets and infrastructure, downtown, are geared to killing unwary pedestrians. Much like in London.

Where else does the safe-to-walk sign flash white while cars are still spilling into the relevant zone in such a manner that, should you walk, you will be hit?

What's with this, Boston? Do you not want those of us from kindlier realms to survive our touch of your inner folds?

As usual, I've had more experiences in the past 24 hours in this metropolis than I could ever chronicle. Walking here, at this time of year, is a bit laborious, not only because of the Darwinian traffic configuration, but because of the lingering humidity, that for a Californian, produces much unwanted sweat.

I'm sure Boston is a perfectly good place, in fact from experience I know it is, but I do not really want to be here tonight. Where I wish to be is a continent away, at a windy, sunny, unkempt field called Crocker-Amazon, high above the outer Mission in San Francisco, to see my 15-year-old play soccer in yet another difficult confrontation.

When I posted recently about "losing" and "winning," I didn't know what lay in store for me, personally.

Today I found out. It's time now for me to learn from the messages I unwittingly inserted into that post; how once again to be resilient, on the professional side, even though, due to childhood illness, I never got to play sports, so I never internalized those lessons myself.

Which is precisely why I wish I were watching my son play soccer tonight, win or lose, rather than sitting in this hotel room, contemplating my own sordid fate.

As a student of life, I still have so much to learn. But there is nothing here, in this place or this time, to teach me.

In that sense, we are all prisoners of our pasts. You cannot form out of emptiness something of substance. You just have to confront the gaping holes of loss and move forward, hoping somehow to play another day, even though no one has invited you to the game.

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