Beltane (1 May 2018)

Beltane (May Day) is an ancient Celtic festival; one associated with fire, sex, fertility, and renewal. It is the day the Maiden goddess comes together with the Green Man - they fall in love and consummate their union to become the May Queen and May King. The Wheel of the Year turns, and so we move from the tenderness and tentativeness of Spring into the fullness and vitality of Summer. 

Hawthorn, or May flowers. Hawthorn, birch, and rowan are the trees sacred to Beltane. Hawthorn is the tree of sexuality and fertility, while birch represents love and fertility. Rowan is the tree of healing and protection. 

The Beltane Fire Festival, in Scotland. 

May Day was the traditional time for handfasting ceremonies, where couples would come together and declare a betrothal period of a year-and-a-day. After the time was up, they could choose to part without any stigma or community ill-will. 

I'm near my year-and-a-day mark here in Boston (May 23). There have been many times this past wheel-turn where I would have broken the union if I could. Boston, for all its historic charms, is as uncomfortable as an ill-fitting wool sweater. I'm not happy here. This is not my home. I think that as long as I live here, I'll still feel temporary. 

But I want to feel temporary here. I want my bones to know that I feel their ache: the way they separate, pulling West; the way they burn cold at the touch of the Atlantic, like a heathen at a baptism. The ache means we haven't settled. And that's settled two ways: we haven't dug in, found permanence, and we won't acquiesce to a place that doesn't feel right. 

The violets here are different than the ones out west, but I still love them. 

I have been hibernating here, or something close to it. I enjoyed the brief Boston summer last year, and the gentle if short autumn. But I haven't been happy often. I know I'm depressed, but it's not a sadness. More than anything it's a grayness, a total lack of motivation, and the gnawing of anxiety. I feel paralyzed by doing anything that adds at all to my schedule, not wanting to go out with the friends I have here or make plans with friends from afar. I let my work with The Vaude Villains wither, relying too heavily on Crystal to carry us. I let my work with Ouija Broads dwindle to the bare minimum, again relying on my creative partner Liz to hold our weight. 

Carry. Carrying. To carry. 

In the Greek Persephone Myth, Persephone is carried to the Underworld against her will by Hades. Hades falls in love with Persephone, the wild springtime goddess and daughter of Demeter. He abducts her, taking her to the afterlife to be his wife. Persephone's mother, the now righteously distraught harvest goddess, refuses to let the Earth's plants grow in her anger. It's only when Earth's people begin to starve and beg Zeus for help that he commands Hades to return Persephone to her mother and the world above. But Hades tricks Persephone into eating six pomegranate seeds before Hermes rescues her. Since she has tasted the food of the Underworld, she is now tied to it, and must return for some months each year. Winter is Demeter's mourning of her stolen daughter, and Spring is a joyous celebration of her return to Earth. 

Magnolia tree blooming at Granary Burying Ground, with Franklin's obelisk in the back. 

The past season, the grayness has carried me. I eat too much and gain a lot of weight. I shop online a lot, but don't spend too much money - usually just putting items in an online shopping cart and leaving them there for a few hours is enough dopamine for me. I make two international friends and we become pen-pals. But it takes me longer and longer to respond to each, and now I find myself embarrassed at how late my response is that I put off writing back to them even longer. 

Cherry blossoms just down the block from my apartment. 

I've gotten such wonderful letters and care packages from Washington from so many friends. The guilt that I'm not reciprocating enough is consuming though, taking little bites of my joy each day. I forget important things many of my friends tell me, and end up having them repeat their conversations to me each time we connect. I hurt the feelings of a dear friend in Seattle when I say now's not a good time to visit. What I want to say is that I'm too depressed, too sad and easily overwhelmed to be a good host. But that doesn't get translated well and it just comes across as a callous dismissal of her and her offer. I commit to art exchanges with some Washington artists, but then scramble to come up with ideas that are "good enough" for my part of the bargain, and put them off, too. They pile up, reproaching me from the desk, the coffee table, the chair. I am 5 months late on making my parents' 40th anniversary gift. I am 6 months late writing about my wonderful trip to Ireland. I used to clear out my email inbox daily: now, my inbox has at least 30 unread messages that I feel too much guilt over neglecting to confront. 

Forsythia. Growing up, our neighbor Ava had beautiful, full forsythia bushes and so they always make me think of being 5 years old and home again. 

I reach out to one of my pen-pals, apologize for my lateness of reply and talk to her about feeling depressed. She immediately validates my feelings, and shares that her March was particularly difficult too, that she's just as deep in it as I am, but that we can rise out of it. I tell her that we are two Persephones, maybe struggling to lift ourselves out of the Underworld but making a damn honest effort at it. I think about painting her some pomegranates, and how I would gild the seeds within. 

That's all I can do, really. I mean, I'll continue to take my anti-anxiety medication, monitor my depression, keep pursuing therapy and doing small acts of self-care. But for being wedged in a place where I don't fit? I'll notice the flowers blooming. I'll stop and watch the still-novel red streak of a cardinal moving through the trees. I'll look for the neighborhood rabbits at dusk, and I'll feel the comforting roughness of 300 year-old bricks in the buildings downtown. I'll gild the seeds of Boston in every way I know how, and hope that my loved ones can be gentle with me as I come back to them. 

And I'll remember that I've eaten a whole fucking lifetime of Washington seeds, and that one day soon I will carry them back home. 

A beautifully ornate doorway in Brookline. 

Food-baby-merman detail.

Being Boston - the First Weeks

I get into Boston much later than expected: my flight was delayed over 4 hours. Our cat did remarkably well, not a peep or a fuss and I’m so proud of him for being so good. Jason picks me up at the airport and brings Bailey with him. Bailey is more excited to see Lebowski than he is to see me, but that’s okay.

I’m so excited to see Jason and our new apartment, but I’m so fried and tired that I just want to go right to bed. Our five-story building is beautiful, old and faced with tan brick. We take the creaking old elevator up to the top floor: you slide open the glass exterior door, and then push back the accordion metal grate on the inside. I do a quick walk through with Jason before I go to bed. Our high ceilings have textured wallpaper or beams, depending on the room. The main hallway has classic half wall paneling and built in display shelves. Our bedroom has a bay window, and in the morning I’ll see just how much light we get.

Intricate glass on our elevator

The way down 

Textured wallpaper in our hallway

Under the covers lump is Lebowski; on top of the covers lump is Bailey

Motto

The next few weeks are a blur of unpacking, settling in, and realizing just how much of a change this new city is. I try to focus on the positives, but it’s hard. Not only am I so far away from all my family and friends, the culture here is so different from Washington. The people are much more gruff. Drivers don’t follow road rules: they make their own lanes, they don’t signal, they honk incessantly, and the left-hand turn across traffic seems to be king. In the first week, though, we meet a delightful couple when we buy a desk and chair from them off craigslist. And we meet a couple that lives two floors below us with their cat, Ty. They’re all very kind, very welcoming, and it makes me feel better to experience such warmth.

The best way for me to a place is on foot. We live in the Brighton neighborhood, and I walk for miles, mostly exploring further south and east. Jason works in Brookline, which is an old Jewish neighborhood. I think 1 in 3 men I see are wearing yarmulke, with many also wearing Talit. The women wear long dresses and head scarves. I walk past religious buildings of all types, but certainly more temples and synagogues than any other city I’ve visited. Of the business I pass, the majority seem to be dentist offices and salons.

The buildings are immediately one of my favorite things about Boston. Many of them are over 100 years old. There’s hidden detail everywhere, from small relief carvings in banisters to terracotta and stone building adornments. Bay windows and deep windowsills. Many buildings have wrought iron fences and balcony railings. I recognize maples and oaks among the other deciduous trees, but a lot of the trees and shrubs are unfamiliar. In this neighborhood they’re old, and their boughs have been allowed to spread across the roads to meet in a green bower over the cars. Streets are narrow and ill-defined, and in no discernable grid. Molly tells me that the roads were literally designed by cows: cattle cut great paths through the land, and then city planners just paved over where the cattle had gone.  

We're nearing Memorial Day, and the memorial street signs in our neighborhood have wreaths and flags

Corinthian columns on a local apartment building

I was really tickled by this sign. They can leave the door code out in public because you have to be able to read Hebrew to decipher it 

On a school next to our apartment

I love the wind here. It’s hot and so humid, but the weather makes up for that with a cool breeze that’s often blowing. I know I’m close to the ocean but the salty tang doesn’t make it this far inland. I’m often struck by a strange, stinky-sweet smell coming from the sewers. Mostly though the air smells clean, and of sweet flowers. We picked a beautiful season to move. I send pictures to Maggie to help me identify strange flowers. The wild roses are familiar, as are the belladonna and lily of the valley. Maggie points out wisteria, and I still need to figure out what a certain flowering tree is. It smells vaguely like lilac, and looks like a cross between that and Queen Anne’s lace.

This tree had flowers that reminded me of butterflies

One of my walks takes me to Chestnut Hill Reservoir. It was created in 1870 to supply water to Boston and the surrounding area, but has only been used in emergency situations since the 1970s. I see rabbits, chipmunks, turtles, geese, and swans. I’m most delighted by the chipmunks, which I don’t often see in Washington. It feels very special when I catch the bright red of a cardinal or a flash of blue from a jay, even though I know they’re relatively common out here. A walking path rings the reservoir, and I’m reminded of Seattle’s Green Lake. Initially I assume the Reservoir is bigger, but it turns out it’s only 1 ½ miles around, half the size of Green Lake.

After dropping Jason off at work one day, I see wild turkeys ambling out to the road and a long grove of strange-looking trees. I circle the block and park to check out both. The turkeys are like turkeys everywhere: lumbering idiot birds that intimidate me hugely. I hear their chortling clucks but keep my distance. It turns out that the trees I’ve found is Longwood Mall, the (presumed) oldest stand of European Beech trees in America. The trees are massive and magnificent, their heavy branches sometimes dipping all the way down to the ground before curving upwards again. There are signs all over urging people to treat the trees with respect, and I’m dismayed to see so much graffiti carved into the trunks.   

Turkeys

Beech trees

Later, I go to the Public Garden. It was the first botanical garden in the US, but that’s not why I’m going: I hear there’s a cool cemetery nearby. I walk perhaps a half-mile of the Freedom Trail through the Common to get to the graveyard. The Trail is not what I expected: it’s lined with benches, most of which are occupied by homeless people asking for money. One man sits apart on the corner, shouting the weather report and baseball scores of the day for spare change.

Bluejay

Boston Gardens gate

Toward one end of the Freedom Trail

I walk beyond the beautiful fountain and up the street to Granary Burying Ground. It dates back to 1660, and holds the remains of some of Boston’s most illustrious historical figures. Today, it’s surrounded on three sides by brick buildings. Business people work inside, and some of them have their desks facing out into the little square. On a second floor window, I see brightly-colored paper figures: a nursery or preschool must be there. I visit John Hancock’s tomb: it’s easy to find as it’s so tall and elaborate. It takes me several passes before I find Paul Revere’s resting place: there’s a simple pillar marking him, next to the much smaller (presumably) original headstone. The most common decoration are engraved skulls with wings, although I see some hourglasses and willow trees. It’s shady and quiet here, even though traffic whizzes by the front of the cemetery.   

John Hancock's grave

I love the way they used to attribute graves as the  "property of" the deceased

Some of the graves had their headstones embedded in the surrounding brick wall

Paul Revere's big gravestone next to Paul Revere's little gravestone 

People left stones on top of Revere's monument 

On another day, I walk several miles to Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. I go past Harvard and MIT, through the hospital district. It’s much faster-paced in this neighborhood, I feel more like I’m in a big city than I do in Brighton. The MFA is staggering in size. The outside is grey stone, with huge ionic columns supporting the classic Greek pediment above the door. I’m tickled to see they are displaying a huge Pride flag along with the American flag.

Back of a garbage truck

Opposing doors on the walk

Interesting street art on the way to MFA

The crosswalks in this neighborhood are intricately designed

Yes

The MFA, Boston

The museum and its collections are just as vast on the inside. I get lost several times and finally give up on the hope that I’ll see it all or tour it logically. I start, by chance, in a small gallery with jewelry. The pieces are dazzling, many of them designer and absolutely encrusted with jewels. They’re grouped by the symbols they share. My favorites are the snakes, the confronted animals, and the medusas. In ancient times, snakes were worn for protection and power.

Medusa

I move on to other ancient art, and my favorite section is on funerary arts. I see mummies, carvings, vessels. Princess Henettawy’s coffin is on display, and it’s from 1000 BC: it’s one of the oldest things I’ve seen. I’m sure there’s a smart way to progress through the galleries to see things in a logical or at least ascending time-period order, but I’m too overwhelmed to figure it out. I wander in and out of hallways, mostly choosing where to walk next based on which room has the fewest fieldtrip groups in it at the time.

Princess Henettawy's coffin 

I like the tongue-in-cheek caption here

One room was visible storage and restoration, and they answered questions via whiteboard messages

I somehow end up in the colonial America gallery, and am delighted to see so many works from my art school text books. The Portrait of Washington (Gilbert Stewart) that was replicated on the dollar bill. The massive Watson and the Shark (John Singleton Copley) dominates a deep-green wall, commanding your attention with its drama and detail. Silverworks by Paul Revere. Paintings by John Singer Sargent. I’m taken back to art school, and god I miss the people and the dedicated time to make art. Working late in the studio, collaborating with friends, the rush that is peer critique and kick in the guts that is instructor critique.

Silverwares by Paul Revere

A reconstructed room of a local wealthy family

Dolla Dolla Bill, y'all

A young boy and his friends kept giggling and saying "Jesus is dive-bombing the crowd!"

Watson and the Shark

This room was the collection of a man who collected art based on its mathematical properties: he used equations to decide what art was the most perfect or beautiful and only collected that (much of it is based on symmetry) 

I make my way to the contemporary art galleries, and love this strange hanging sculpture and some shadow play cutouts. Visitors move quicker through the contemporary art galleries than the historic galleries. Why is that? Is it that it’s easier to digest meanings with the distance of time? That the unfamiliarity of older work inspires more curiosity? Simple sensory overload of the neon tubes and bright colors in the modern galleries? I’ve been looking at art for almost 3 hours, and I’m tired and at my saturation point. But I make sure I find my way to the basement for the current Matisse exhibition. The space is crammed full of people, looking, taking selfies, chatting. To be honest, I don’t get as much from the Matisse exhibit as I thought I would, but that’s mostly due to the massive amount of people who make it impossible to contemplate, and my own over-stimulated nerves. I’ll need to go back to MFA several times before I see it all.    

There is so much culture and art here in Boston. I just have to be brave enough to go out and find it all. I'm glad I have the chance to try.