The Traveler

On May 22nd at 10am I set out from my hometown of Brattleboro Vermont to travel. I had, at least, an initial destination and a rough idea of the route. I knew I wanted to see Nova Scotia. Where I decided to go from there was yet to be seen. I did know for sure that I'd keep myself open to the possibility that I might, along the way, find the next place where I'd decide to live and maybe even the next person that I was meant to love. Throughout this whole adventure I've tried to remain mindful that the journey was always the real destination.

It's now July 26th and I'm on my tenth day here in Yarmouth. My journey has taken me through unexpectedly beautiful villages in New Hampshire on my way to the sea coast, like Henniker and Hopkinton where I marveled at the sight of a river running through a New England scene that can only be described as extraordinary, along the rugged Maine coast up to Bar Harbor where I fell in love with April and her Opera House Cafe, into New Brunswick, where the word "hill" gained a new definition for me, and up into Amherst where everything stopped and the pot became irrevocably stirred. There I met some truly wonderful people whom I'll carry with me for the rest of my life. I've ridden through a valley that reminded me very much of the place where I grew up and renewed my interest in seeing things through a photographer's eye. And then into Yarmouth. My experience here, and to a similar extent in Amherst, has been nothing short of life changing. I now know for certain that Matt, the young man that I met on the bridge who led me to this place that is now becoming so familiar, was placed there on the bridge specifically to rendezvous with me and guide me in. I was supposed to be here. Before my journey began, a thousand years before I was born, my itinerary was laid out, a hand poised - waiting to check off all the experiences that have been prepared for me on this journey and throughout the course of my life. My friend Bette shared her belief that our lives function exactly that way, that it's all been laid out in advance and we're just players on a stage reading lines and following stage direction that's already been choreographed. I didn't fully understand it then and engaged her in a lively discussion of free will and matters of time and space surrounding her belief. I can now see that she might be onto something. The young man on the bridge was not a coincidence. My ability to comprehend what it is that placed him there at that moment is limited. For him to be riding along, and decide to capture a photograph that may have caught his attention for just a split second at the same time that I was passing through on day 57, leaves open the possibility that that split second vision could have been a quick whisper from the man with the clipboard that "hey, there's a picture", or maybe a couple lines of code from the big server in the sky. For whatever reason or from whatever source, it would appear that things happen for a reason. I've often struggled with that expression. I also have a hard time with "you always find it the last place you look". Well duh, don't you stop looking once you've found it? "Things happen for a reason" like Bette's belief about following along to some cosmic bouncing ball, begs the question of "which came first the chicken or the egg?" Did I meet Carla and Chas and Joe and Sheila and Daryl and Brenda and Phil because Matt was on the bridge or was Matt on the bridge because Hopkinton and the Opera House and Amherst and the valley had already been checked off and 73 Cliff Street was key life event number 7,256.Which came first? This morning I'm no longer struggling with that question, it's made it into my top five favorite expressions. OK, here it is folks, squeezing in at number three... "All things happen for a reason".

So now there's today, gray and chilly, a lone blue jay calling from down Cliff Street, the house is quiet except for the refrigerator clicking on occasionally to keep cold the leftovers from the meals that we've shared. I'm alone in the kitchen grateful that everyone's sleeping in. I slept in Chas' room last night, he's away for a few weeks of camp and summer visiting. In keeping with the spirit of Chas' room, I piled all of my stuff on his bed when Phil arrived and last night just cleared a space to sleep. Just me, one blanket, something resembling a pillow on which to rest my head, and a pile.

Lao Tsu , the father of Buddhism, once said "A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving". This morning I'm struggling with key life event 7,257. If I hadn't left Bar Harbor, I would have never met Bette and Beverly. If I hadn't left Amherst, I would have never met Carla and company. My love for the special ones who've touched my life will never be diminished by distance. I know that I'll always be welcome on a porch in Amherst where I can laugh and listen and share.

I know that there will always be a place for me here. I know I've made a huge impression and contribution to the lives of those I've touched and I know a vacuum will be left when I ride away from this place.

When I was in my twenties, living in Massachusetts and raising a family, I used to love watching the Tour de France coverage on television. It was during those wonder years before Lance Armstrong came into the limelight (he was just a young rider supporting the peloton) when Greg LaMond and Bernard Hinault were locked it their epic battle for the yellow jersey. LaMond was the superior rider but Hinault was the favorite son of France and the owner of team La Vie Claire for which they both rode. A team could have only one leader. Ultimately Hinault was given the nod to take over the lead and with the peleton driving him home claimed his fifth and final Tour de France victory. I clearly remember LaMond, dejected and pissed (sorry Mom!) for having been told to sit back and let Bernard ride into Paris to the adulation of the cycling world and cheers of an entire nation. I remember Greg ripping off his jersey and throwing it to the ground, and I remember his cyclist tan. Arms and legs bronzed from long days on the Tour, tanned from the neck up, everything else white. I had that same tan when I rode into Yarmoth. I notice this morning that it's already beginning to fade. I was proud of that tan, it meant something to me. I'd earned it, damnit.

A part of me feels like Greg LaMond, I'm being stopped, by myself to be sure, but the race is not yet won.

~B