Monday Morning Musings:
We listen to our hearts, traveling north
we listen to NPR, switching stations as they fade in an out.
I wonder about all who’ve journeyed up and down this coast,
on rough paths, on old turnpike roads, in birch crafts on the rivers,
and on the sea–
sailing into the bustling seaports of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
They were looking for America
from across the ocean, from across rivers and bays,
they arrived in a land of wonders, one not unpopulated,
the people already there displaced, their way of life disrupted, changed forever
Long ago, my husband and I made this journey, headed to Mystic.
we were about the age of our older daughter now,
our hearts were young, filled with passion and uncertainty
in equal measures,
the way it is then
before life tempers, and provides nuances,
But joy comes in seeing the world in different ways
as we journey through life
down roads uncharted
then, now, the future
all merge on this highway
We stay at a lovely inn in Old Mystic
with each room named for a New England author,
the perfect place for a writer,
don’t you think?
We’re in the Mark Twain room,
decorated with both flair and whimsy–
a mysterious note appears on the bathroom mirror
in the steam, and we laugh.
It’s the day before our wedding anniversary,
our hearts have traveled.
miles and time together
beating close together
and far apart.
We eat the delicious breakfast
(strawberry stuffed French Toast
and herbed scrambled eggs, corn cakes with fruit
the second morning)
and head off for the seaport.
We climb aboard a whaling ship,
the whalers long gone, but the ship restored.
Men sailed away, often for years,
life echoing the sea, back and forth, like the tides
towns and cities grew from
and became dependent on this life,
money to be made from whale oil,
and maritime business
coopers, chandlers, rope makers,
but broken-hearts for those who never returned.
Hearts have chambers,
rooms, like a house or inn,
blood travels through them,
leaving traces behind
as a person’s scent remains in a room.
Hearts hold our love encased within them.
Whales hearts, so much larger than ours,
do they hold more love?
Did their families cry and mourn for them, too,
when they did not return?
A history of hearts, human and whale, entwined
We eat dinner at a restaurant on the river,
we look down upon the sailing boats,
leaving a V trail behind them in the water,
the setting sun casts a glow upon the water,
we discover my husband’s knife is magnetized,
we laugh as he uses it to pull a fork around the table,
and the food is great, too.
Off to Boston and another inn,
our bed has a four poster bed with steps to get up onto it.
Our older daughter walks with us to
the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum,
and how amazing she must have been
to collect such works during the Gilded Age
(and the fortunes and friendships to make it possible)
to create a Venetian palace and garden
I look at the paintings.
I love that my daughter also walks slowly
reading each sign, examining the lines and details
I watch the people, too,
the young Asian woman in the dirndl style dress,
the skirt a pattern of giant books, a ribbon in her hair–
What is her story?
does the dress reflect her heart, an open book?
The next day with our daughter and her wife
we spend hours wandering through the deCordova sculpture park.
It’s a beautiful day,
my heart sings with the joy of being alive,
walking with my husband, my daughter, and her wife
looking at sculptures, smelling the flowers
(Where is that cinnamon scent coming from?
We never do find out.)
It’s a lovely day to walk among the works of art,
outside and inside.
We rest after that
then have pizza, walk through a bookstore, and eat ice cream for dessert,
because it’s summertime,
food for the body, and food for the soul.
We leave the inn, the next morning,
we leave the sea and its tides,
beating with life’s rhythms,
we follow and cross rivers
the Charles, the Connecticut,
the Hudson, the Delaware,
the earth’s arteries,
lead us home,
where a grey cat and a white cat
are waiting for us.
We stayed at the Old Mystic Inn. Our room was in the carriage house—the rooms have separate entranced and a porch with chairs and tables. There is also a gazebo. This is probably the best inn I’ve ever stayed in. Lovely room and setting (outside of the commercial area), and delicious breakfasts created by innkeeper and chef Michael S. Cardillo, Jr. There was a fireplace in the room, too, which would be beautiful in cooler weather. We ate our anniversary eve dinner at S & P Oyster Company. It was expensive, but the food was excellent, not an overpriced tourist spot. Call for “priority seating.”
We stayed at the Bertram Inn, in Brookline, outside of Boston, near where our older daughter lives. It was also wonderful with nice touches, such as turn down service with chocolates each night. I was surprised to find that it was once the home of a family—and their servants. Lovely rooms, friendly staff, and delicious buffet breakfasts (with cold foods available for early risers, like us.) We ate our breakfast on an outside porch beneath a trellis
In the Boston area, we visited
And the deCordova Sculpture Garden