There are some days, special days, when you are more aware of the air you breathe, of all the scents and sensations that surround you. When you almost stand back, out of body and observe yourself experiencing life. Today was such a day.
A mundane game of golf is transformed into an autumnal frolic where all the colors of nature’s palate bombard your eyes. The golf game ceases to be the end in itself, but rather a vehicle to experience the explosion of color-burgundy, orange, yellow, russet resonating from the trees surrounding the fairway. A shot in the rough does not elicit consternation, but rather, like a child who dallies returning from the playground before returning to school, the duffer slowly looks for his ball, as if hiking beyond the fairway to find the white ball, is an excuse to walk further into the New England countryside.
Again, the child from within emerges. Don’t let the circus end, Daddy. A par simply means the experience is abridged. Let the afternoon meander. A missed shot-what of it-simply more time to explore, more time to experience this autumn moment.
Fortunately, the day continues-the afternoon jog-some would view it as the daily object of fitness, but one of road racing’s gurus, George Sheehan, reminds us that we must play above all else. A route many times taken can become routine and the experience diminished. However, today, that same autumn afternoon captures the runner’s attention. He breathes heavily, but somehow with less effort because he is distracted. The skyline across the Charles is an artistic canvas.
The sky is an easel with dappled argentate clouds that murmur the preamble of harsher weather. The sun in the west, behind his back, beats not on his neck, but rather, on the faces of the skyscrapers looking down upon his form across the river. From his ambulating eye, they are not bricks and mortar, but rather diamonds sparkling clearly at him. Skyscrapers reach up to that charcoal gray sky, but reflect back their colors toward his eye: some gold, some blue, off the panorama.
But the centerpiece of his canvas at dusk is the river. Yes, the reflections of the skyscrapers stretch onto the river and reach out to the opposite shore. Their glittering images direct the eye to the world on the river. They are not white butterflies searching for the river’s pollen, but rather a fleet of weekday sailors with jibs and mainsails set to capture a few hours of the life of the river before it sleeps. The butterfly sails are not alone. Juxtaposed are the rapier shells cutting through the water. Eight as one, the silent sonata of efficiency as human power propels the shell through the still surface of the Charles.
A shark would be envious. The runner bears right over the Longfellow Bridge. The breathing seems less labored, the fatigue is less pronounced. This performance is coming to an end. However, there is a rub. The golfer, the runner, the observer, realize that he has at once been not just the audience, but the performer as well. The golfer is part of the landscape, the sailors and scullers view the runner on the shore as he views them. Such is the full ensemble of an autumn symphony in New England.
Kevin R. Loughlin MD,MBA is a retired urologic surgeon. He is trying to prove F. Scott Fitzgerald wrong when he said, ” There are no second acts in American life” and has embraced the writing life in his retirement.
