The past few days have felt like a heavy empty darkness not worth living. The only thing I could do was sit and scroll as the tears rolled down my face. Every task, despite its size, seemed too large a feat. The biggest chore of all, taking that tiny blue pill that will supposedly fix all of my complications, was a concept I couldn’t swallow. Nothing could make this harrowing pain any more tolerable nor change my apathetic view of this cursed affliction called life. This isn’t a choice, well maybe some of it is, but I don’t want to live a lonely miserable life always afraid of what's around me and to come.
I’ve dabbled in all of the traditional vices yearning for a sense of relief, each adding new elements to the problems that plague me; except for one-my words. As long as I could remember, I absolutely loved to talk and write stories. My mom used to call me a one-person conversationalist and my second grade fairy tale about the wicked witch of Warwick deserved a Pulitzer, if I do say so myself. But recalling the raw heart-wrenching details to tell my troublesome truth was a task too terrible to endure. In abandoning the power of my words, I lost a childlike part of myself as the years went by, that I hope to rediscover. In an effort to soothe my troubled mind, I emerged from the black hole of a bed and put one foot in front of the other.
Seeking serenity and an ounce of productivity, I found myself in the center of simply beautiful Commonwealth Plaza. Sitting anxiously and eagerly on a bench, Forrest Gump style, waiting for my heart to pour onto this page another proclaimed solution to my unspeakable problems. But it was windy and cold, plus a few thousand other excuses, so my depression wasn’t going to disappear from writing a few paragraphs. I think the most beautiful things are the moments that we can’t see and the most beautiful moment revolved around this ordinary girl on an ordinary bench in an ordinary plaza in an ordinary city.
A seemingly ordinary man walked along the sidewalk with his ordinary son. The little boy who was barely three feet was guiding his father, his stubby little legs taking him on a journey. The father’s smile cracked through his rugged face when he showed his boy the delicate bird’s nest resting on the bare branches on a timeless tree. His closed off frame opened to hug his son as he marveled in the boy’s wonder. They kept walking, the mood now set to be playful. These stubby little legs were now strutting along the cobblestone of Commonwealth, his pure heart now the guide. Barely above sea level, this boy was feeling on top of the world when the mahogany shimmer of his iris linked with his father’s tawny eyes. The two men ventured off trail, playing hide and seek in the hedges whose heights towered that of them. I hope his magnificent imagination envisioned those mere bushes as a fortress or perhaps a florid forest.
An ordinary bystander could see the memories forming, the love growing and the boy’s world now bigger than he could have ever fathomed. It was only after their adventure, did I start to truly see the magical memory they just experienced. Now, finally ready to take in more of this treasure, they were walking away. No longer revolving around me and ready to commence their ordinary lives outside Commonwealth Plaza. Like their camouflage pants, there was nothing to look at, but everything to see. Except I didn’t just see this moment, I felt it. It was the first thing I felt in days, the virgin emotion making it all the more invigorating. Though the happiness is fleeting, the hope in people and myself is forever.
Every day will always be an ordinary day in the Commonwealth Plaza of Boston, but my perspective and more importantly my pen, tell its spectacular story. This heartwarming feeling on a cold winter's day is why I can’t discard my wildest dream of writing when this little boy is just discovering his, and his father’s came true. That moment, that family, that plaza, me; all so magical yet real, all so ordinary-that's what makes the human experience so extraordinary.
I wish I could thank them for being so human and vulnerable in front of me. That dad definitely thought I was a creep in my introspective staring at his precious family. The only thing I can do is work on my observation skills and be grateful in myself for being present in that moment to truly capture it. They gifted me a wonderful ounce of wisdom, that life is a present. I was depressed before, during and after, but being able to witness that wonder of the world, reminds me to fight to live another day. So that I can see more extraordinary ordinary moments.
Come spring, the trees won't be the only thing blooming. My career, the boy's imagination and the father's heart all expanded further than we could have ever imagined.
You write so well! UFrank