Unexpected Joys in Boston

I spent the last three days in Boston where I found unexpected joy and moments of being in the right place at the right time, without realizing you were meant to be there all along.  I gave Pack, the duck statue stolen this spring, an extra hug.  I admit that I wanted to sit on Mrs. Mallard, in line with all the other children, but I refrained. I had the joy of watching a pair of Mallards lead their offspring around the pond.  Two babies lagged behind by twenty feet–until their momma noticed. Then, like mini speedboats, the wanderers zipped through the water, and in seconds caught up with their family. I watched parents laughing with their children in the frog pond; teens relating to their friends without their heads bent over lost in the world of texting; and I quacked along with all the other passengers on a duck tour, where my newest hero struggles with his love of fast-food. In form-fitting spandex and a cape, he drives his beloved duck, Molly Molasses. Though his humor is irresistable,  his obvious sensitivity for children is what won me over.  Captain SuperSwift made sure that every child on our tour, even the ones hiding in the back, had a turn at driving Molly Molasses, once we were safely in the water. I did hold my breath when one over-enthusiastic young boy turned the wheel too sharply to the left and was obviously very independent, but SuperSwift came to the rescue with compassion.

That evening, my husband and I wandered through the streets of the North End.  We walked by a restaurant and stood next to the open windows. Two elderly gentlemen sang and played accordians.  Soon, there was a gathering of couples on the sidewalk, all of us holding our partners and singing along. My belly full of rich italian food we happened upon a sunset where the sky was an exquisite shade of rich turquoise blue.  As soon as I took several photos, the night sky appeared.

On the way back to the T, I heard a banging of metal, shuffling, and clanging.  The sound pulled me into a circle of people.  And on the sidewalk, in front of a closed florist shop at Faneuil Hall Marketplace, sat a young man. He was deep into his own world.  With his head bent over, he seemed to have no knowledge of his audience, nor did he seem to care.  His hands beat against the white buckets used for cut flowers. To his left were old oven racks, frying pans, metal pots and pans.  His talent was raw and I was privileged to be invited. I was inspired.

This is how a writer should create.  Bury yourself into the words and go deep into the story as if no one is watching. Open up your soul and allow your heart to sing.