Arriving in Worcester

 It was a joy to be met by my sister and mother in Worcester

Traveling from Amherst to Worcester

 Crossing the Connecticut River near Sunset

Cycling along the banks of the Deerfield River

Clif and Arlene offering a blessing as I departed Shutesbury

 With Mark Farrell at his lakeside cabin in Sturbridge

Bike Path to Sturbridge

Final Week and Epilogue

    The physical act of writing my observations is like trying to catch fish with my bare hands.  We are changed by the people we encounter and the things we have seen.  The nature and extent of this change is rarely immediately clear.  Trying to put into words how I have been shaped by this experience is a slippery endeavor.  It is hard work to compose a truthful narrative of our lives.  Often, we delegate the task to pundits and social commentators who have never met us.  It is necessary, however, to look at our own lives unflinchingly to discern that which is good, beautiful, and true. 

One reason I have procrastinated is that I am lazy and tend to avoid the hard work required for meaningful introspection.  I am often tormented by the Greek maxim that “an unexamined life is not worth living.”  A more pressing reason, however, is that we continue to changed by our conversations and experiences long after we walk away from these encounters.  The people we have met teach us something for the rest of our lives.  We can, at best, offer a poorly focused snapshot of this particular moment.

       In the last week of my bike pilgrimage I cycled the length of Massachusetts.  I had not realized the size and diversity to be found in the commonwealth.  When I cycled from Lee to Pittsfield (a mere 12 miles) I saw people from across the entire socio-economic spectrum.  One can see the affluence of those who have second (or third or fourth) homes in Lenox. They are attracted to the natural beauty, cool summers, and dependable winter skiing.  It is possible to live in such homes and be shielded from the anxiety, struggles, and unpleasantness which poverty often entails.  There are small cattle farms which have become economically difficult to maintain and have added to the economic insecurity of the region.  The city of Pittsfield has lost 20 per cent of its population in the 30 years since its largest employer (General Electric) pulled out of the region.  In my conversation with Matt Albert, I discovered that the decline would be larger had it not been for the fact that many people from the Boston area on disability have been attracted by lower housing cost.  The proximity of Pittsfield to Lenox has been a source of growing resentment between the winners and losers of current economic trends. 

     Cycling East of Pittsfield towards Bernardston, allowed me to see that there is a significant lumber industry in the state.  Though I was resentful that my GPS led me up steep gravel roads away from any glimpse population center, it did give me an opportunity to see that there are many beautiful and remote places in the state.  I was surprised that there are many places in Massachusetts which are beyond the reach of cell phone signal.  This had not happened since I left Wyoming a month earlier.  I was so very grateful that yet another angel, Pat Malloy, picked me up in the forest and drove me to where the roads were paved and cell phone service was available.  I have come to realize throughout this trip that the world is filled people who are seeking to perform acts of kindness and love. 

     She drove me to the paved road and I began to feel more confident, but was still without a signal. The road led me to a rural pub outside of Ashfield, which gave me access to the internet.  There was only one other patron in the pub, and I was grateful for the human companionship.  The bartender was talkative and asked how I happened to find such a remote location.  When I told her my story, she went to the back to retrieve the owner.  He asked several probing questions, took my picture to put on the bulletin board, and gave a beer on the house.  The only customer (a new grandmother named Barbie) joined in the conversation and shared her pizza with me.

    I asked the owner his business was doing in the aftermath of Covid.   The pandemic had been hard, but he thinks that he will be able to stay in business.  He relies on the patronage of skiers which keeps him afloat during the warm months.  I asked him why he remained open if he lost money all summer.  He smiled and told me “on the off chance that someone like you would come in.”  Though I knew that this was a joke, it did warm my heart.

     Bill and Tracey Murray, friends from Nantucket, met me in Shelburne, Mass.   We walked around that beautiful village festooned with flowers.  The Deerfield and Connecticut Rivers join close to the town center.  We watched dozy tubers float down the river, which made me want to jump in to join them.  While crossing the “Bridge of Flowers” crossing the Deerfield River Tracey, standing behind me discretely took a video of me to send to Denise.  

     I was surprised to see such diverse natural beauty in a state I had always considered urban.  After experiencing the soothing power of the falls, they kindly loaded my bike and trailer into their car (the second time someone had transported me and my stuff that day) and we went to their lovely home in forested area outside of Bernardston, near the Vermont border.  They kindly offered to do my laundry (which sorely needed washing) and we spent the evening telling stories, drinking their wine, and eating a lovely dinner.  Sometimes I forget how precious these delights can be.

     In the morning, I cycled down to Amherst and spent a few hours walking around that town of scholars and artists.  I visited the home of Emily Dickinson and read some of her haunting poetry.  Some people spend large sums of money to sit in her library, where she had done much of her writing, to soak up her spirit.  The museum is grateful for their contributions.  Amherst is also the home of the poet, Robert Frost, as well as Noah Webster (of dictionary fame).  It is the home to five universities and many bookstores. 

     That night I was the guest of Lukey Nuthman who kindly welcomed me into her home.  She is planning a solo trip along some of the same routes I had taken, so we spent the evening pouring over maps.  She is the process of selling her lovely 19^th century home in the middle of beautiful garden and spend some time exploring the area by bike.  Her kindness and love of beautiful things touched me as I went on my way. 

    After leaving Amherst, I cycled to Shutesbury and was grateful to meet Clif and Arlene Read.  While cycling along a gravel road I came upon a black bear sitting along the side of the road.  It acknowledged my presence, but appeared neither alarmed nor interested.  I started to dig out my phone to take a picture, but something in his eyes convinced me that this was not a wise thing to do. 

    My GPS instructed me again to take a gravel road around a large lake.  I am beginning to realize that the GPS people do not always consider my well being when it is functioning as an oracle.  After pushing my bike 3 miles up a steep gravel road, encouraged only by the knowledge that I was approaching a warm shower, it began recalculated and counseled me to turn around and go 8 miles around to the other side of the lake.  I shouted, startling some local fishermen who became concerned.  I decided to ignore these directions for the next mile.

     Upon entering the village there is a sign printed “Welcome to Shutesbury; not to be confused with Shrewsbury.”  Evidently the similarity in the names is a source of some confusion and resentment to residents of this hamlet.  Clif and Arlene had bought a 100 acre parcel of land with 7 other families each of whom built a house.  This left a wooded area with trails and benches for contemplation to be shared by the community.  They are members of a Quaker community and used the pronoun “thee” to express familiarity and intimacy in speaking with each other.  Their environmental concerns have shaped their love of cycling as a form of recreation which does not leave a large carbon footprint.  Their teenage son, Charlie had died of an epileptic seizure two years earlier and the community had sponsored a bike-a-thon to raise money for The Epilepsy Society.  The night I spent with them was the anniversary of his death and we spent the evening talking about him. 

     In an autobiography of Abraham Lincoln I was struck by how Lincoln was able to conduct the Civil war while his own son, Willie was dying in the Whitehouse.  In 1862 he was composing the Emancipation Proclamation while Willie was gravely ill upstairs.  Upon his death, his aides tried to be a source of comfort while simultaneously keeping the president focused on the task of leading a country at war.  One aide, trying to be comforting, said “Mr. President, time heals all wounds.”  Lincoln turned to him and shouted “Time does NOT heal all wounds.  GOD does not heal all wounds.  God, in his terrible mercy, leaves some wounds open.  Out of such wounds springs compassion!”

     Sometimes, in the aftermath of unspeakable tragedy, we find our capacity for kindness, forgiveness, and acceptance enlarged.  At such a time, if a blessing is to be found anywhere, perhaps it can be found in an enlarged capacity for compassion.

     The Reads packed a lovely lunch for me to bring on my way and I started cycling towards Belchertown.  When I was eight years old, and living in Lenox, I met another boy from Belchertown.  I was thrilled that a town could have such a name the two of us would refer to it as “Burpville”.  It has loomed large in my imagination these past 60 years, though I had never had the opportunity to visit there.  I am grateful for the hospitality of Richard and Pat Prager, two retired teachers who welcomed me in their home.  In their retirement, they have cycled across the U.S. and Mexico.  They have recently become grandparents; the gravitational force of their grandchildren has kept them close to home recently.

    On Thursday, I cycled to Sturbridge and stayed with Mark Farrell in a house on the banks of Leadmine Pond (a beautiful lake with an unfortunate name).  When I arrived he mentioned that he was out of town to pick up his daughter and would not be in until late.  He did, however, invite me to jump into the lake for a swim.  I joined him and his daughter for pancakes early the next morning and we discussed how he was re-organizing his life after the recent death of his wife.  Renovating his summer cabin into a year round residence was part of his starting this new chapter of his life.  We chatted for some time about ways to order one’s life when external structures are destroyed.  I was touched with his kindness and his candor.

     On Friday morning, I cycled to Worcester.  My sister, mother, and I had arranged weeks before to meet there on the penultimate day of my trip.  It was the first time I had seen any of them in over three months and we enjoyed a meal of steaks from a Brazilian restaurant.   I shared with them the things I have seen along the way.  It had been raining that day.  In anticipation of our conversation, I found myself singing “A Hard Rain’s a gonna fall” as I peddled:

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?

Who did you meet, my darling young one?

I met a young woman whose body was burning

I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love

I met another man who was wounded with hatred

And it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard, and it’s hard

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

   On Saturday, my mother and sister took my baggage away and I was able to cycle the last 60 miles unencumbered.  The landscape gradually became more familiar. I felt exhilarated as I approached home.  Denise was following my travel on her GPS and rode out to meet me as I came within a few miles of our house.  Her sister, Valerie, was visiting from Italy and was able to capture our arrival on film as we came up the driveway.

     As I slept in my bed for the first time in three months, I pondered the many people I have met along the way.  Over 30 strangers had invited me into their homes, fed me, and told me their stories and listened to mine.  I was able to see another 30 friends for the first time in many years.  Six of the families I have met were still grieving the recent death of a child.  Their kindness, joy, courage, and sorrow have greatly changed me.  As I drifted off to sleep, I thought of the words of The Little Gidding by T.S. Elliot

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

Through the unknown, remembered gate

When the last of earth left to discover

Is that which was the beginning;

At the source of the longest river

The voice of the hidden waterfall

And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for

But heard, half-heard in the stillness

Between two waves of the sea.

    In the Sunday service the next day, prayers of thanksgiving were offered for my safe arrival.  It was also Denise and my 41^st wedding anniversary.  The blessing offered for us on that day was an outward and visible sign of the blessing she has been to me all of these years.

      There are other reflections of a social and theological nature which I will post shortly after I look them over to see if they are likely to be comprehensible to others.  I do not know if anyone will be reading these words, but for reasons I cannot fully explain, I very much needed to write them.

Return Home

 Denise escorting me home

Prayer of thanksgiving for a safe return

Day 93 -99  My return home

    When I left the service at St. Helena’s Chapel the weather was cooler with overcast skies.  This is wonderful for cycling.  I headed northwest into the Berkshires Mountains.  It came as a surprise to me that western Mass. is so forested.  The GPS led me away from pavement and brought me along rugged logging roads. The frequent logging trucks were a source of great anxiety. 

     This route led me up a route which could not be cycled.  I pushed my bike up a curving road having no idea when (and if) I would ever reach the top.  After the first mile I stopped getting a GPS signal.  After the second mile the skies opened up with a torrential downpour which hit me before I could get out my rain gear.  After a third mile the road forked and my GPS was useless.  I decided to disregard the counsel of Robert Frost and take the road most travelled. 

    Sometime later, an SUV came rambling along with Pennsylvania plates.  Out hopped a lovely lady in strange attire and offered to help.  She was returning from a local Renaissance festival (which explained her peculiar outfit) and had also been led astray by her GPS.  She invited me to put my bike and gear into the car and we could seek civilization together.  Almost immediately, the rain stopped, we reached the top of the hill and the road had become paved.  Feeling that I was owed the coast downhill on this pavement, I really wanted to order her to stop and let me out.  I refrained from doing so because we had only driven a hundred yards such a request would sound crazy.  We had, however, an enjoyable conversation about how we have all lost our sense of direction due to an overdependence upon GPS.  She drove me another 10 miles and dropped me off when we found a  sign indicated the direction to Bernardston. 

     Tracy and Bill Murray were former parishioners from Nantucket who now live in Bernardston.  I met up with them and explored Shelburne Falls, a lovely town built along the banks of the Deerfield River near where it flows into the Connecticut.  The river has carved an interesting valley through the area which makes it very attractive for tubing and canoeing.  I was so grateful to catch up with them and wished I could have stayed longer.

     On Monday morning, I cycled to Amherst, and am grateful for the hospitality of Lukey Nuthman who was preparing for some upcoming solo major bike trips.   I am grateful for her hospitality and hope that I was able to offer some useful information in preparation for her trip.  I left her house and stopped by the home and museum of Emily Dickenson.  I can now see how the lovely rolling hills combined with the austere 19^th century congregational community; have combined to provide the background for her beautiful and mysterious poetry.

     On Tuesday, I on and stayed at the house of Clif and Arleen Read in Shutesbury.  They are avid cyclists and have followed much of the same route I have taken on this trip.  I wish I had consulted them before embarking; they have much wise counsel to offer.  It was a source of sadness that I arrived on the anniversary of the death of their son, Charlie who had succumbed to a severe epileptic seizure.  They have been able to use their love of cycling as a fund raising instrument for the Epilepsy Foundation.  They are members of the Quaker community and have adopted the linguistic habit of referring to each other as “Thee”- an intimate greeting (in contrast to the formal “you”).  Most English speakers have dropped the use of formal and informal pronouns and I fear our speech is impoverished because of this.

    Wednesday night was a short day and I only had to cycle 20 miles from Amherst to Belchertown (an unfortunate town name).  Jan and Richard Prager prepared a meat free meal which was so delicious that it inspires me to become a vegetarian. 

   On Thursday, I cycled on to Sturbridge and was hosted at the lovely lakeside home of Mark Farrell.  I was able to able to jump into the lake after a long day pedaling which was source of great joy.  The lake carries the unfortunate name “Lead mine Lake” leaving one with the impression that it contains toxins.  The water, however, was cool, clean and refreshing and I realize what a blessing such places are in New England. 

    My mother and sister, Catherine, had arranged to meet me for my penultimate night in Worcester, Mass.   It was so wonderful to be able to spend time with them after being separated from them for three months.  We rented an apartment for the night and I was able to fill them in on some of the places I had seen along the way.  By prior arrangement, they would be bringing my gear to Saugus and I would bike my last day unencumbered.

    The absence of the 60 pound cart made me feel as though I could fly.  The route from Worcester to Saugus is lovely with many farm stands along the way.  Designated bike routes are available for half of the trip.  This makes it possible to imagine that I was not cycling through a very densely populated region (for the first time since Chicago).  That day I had to cycle 60 miles (a great distance for me), but the absence of baggage and the gradual downhill run towards the sea made it a pleasure.  I was so looking forward to seeing Denise and the community at St. John’s, Saugus. 

     Ten miles before I reached my home, a loose strap became entangled in my rear gears and derailleur.  This caused me to yell coarse words to the elements.  I had to carry my bike to a parking lot of a Dunkin Donuts in Medford and began removing my rear wheel.

      Denise was able to follow my progress on her GPS and found it unseemly that with only 10 miles to go I had stopped for donuts.  The removal of the strap and re-aligning of the derailleur was a large production, and my pride would not allow me to call up Denise to pick me up.  I am so very grateful that yet another angel, Chris Legere, pulled into the parking lot and had the necessary tools and expertise to correct the problem.

     As I approached home, Denise continued to follow me on the GPS, and went out to meet me on the bike path when I was a mile away.  It was such a joy to finally pull into a driveway I had not seen for 3 months and to be greeted by Denise, her sister Valerie visiting from Milan, and Harry Coverston, a priest from Orlando who was filling in for me for part of my absence.

      The next morning I was able to sit with Denise in church, which I rarely get the opportunity to do.  Harry offered a prayer of Thanksgiving for my safe return and blessed Denise and me in that this was our 41^st wedding anniversary.  Harry offered a beautiful prayer marking my return

     “Gracious G-d, we offer you our gratitude that you have granted our Brother, John, a welcome return home.

     We thank you that he has been preserved from all harm and, encircled by your holy angels, traveled safely across this land to his journey’s end.  And we thank you for your abiding presence with Denise, his wife, his family, and this community during his absence.

    May his coming home bring new gifts, new life, new hope.  We thank your that which all who return home bring us.

·         A sense of freshness

·         A reminder that there is a world out there beyond the one we kow

·         And the assurance that life goes on, life is good, and tha tour connection to you, O G-d, can neer be broken no matter how far we roam.

Amen

     There are other reflections that I will be adding to this blog later, but I wanted to thank all those people who have demonstrated kindness, love and prayers for me during this pilgrimage.  I have developed the habit of reflecting regularly on the meditation offered by Vivek Murthy, the U.S. Surgeon General

“…think about the people who have loved you over the years, the people who have been there for you during difficult times, who have supported you without judging you, and who stood by your side even when it was hard.  Think about the people who have celebrated of moments of greatest joy with you, the people who say your successes as theirs, the people who derived such pleasure and fulfillment from seeing you happy.  Feel their love flowing through you, lifting you up, brightening your mood, and filling your heart.  And know that that love is always there, even if they are not physically with you, because you carry that love in your heart.  And know that you are and always will be worthy of that love.  It came to you because you deserved it.”

Matt Albert in Pittsfield whipping up a stew

 

Day 92 Pittsfield back to Lenox and on to Bernardston, Massachusetts

 

Day 92 Pittsfield back to Lenox and on to Bernardston, Massachusetts

 

    After some time in the chapel I arose and got on my bike and continued on to the house of Matt Albert who was preparing dinner for me.  Although the ride from that rural chapel to downtown Pittsfield is only 7 miles, as a child the city existed beyond the horizon of my imagination.  Sidewalks and places of commerce were not part of my childhood experience.

.

    Matt is an expert on bike wheels.  It is a testimony to my ignorance that I did not think that there was much to know about bike wheels.  When I described the collapse of my rear wheel in Washington State, he immediately looked on line to examine the specifications of the wheel.  When read the diameter of the spokes and how many where connected to the rim, he concluded “of course it fell apart.  It was cheaply constructed.”  He described with some detail a recent two day course of wheel building at the cost of 2,000 dollars (800 for instruction and 1,200 for the materials), I began to realize that bicycle wheels are, in fact, a work of art which can either be lovingly crafted or carelessly stamped out of an assembly line.  It is hard to believe that one can have a delightful evening discussing the subtle nuance of bike wheels, but Matt has an infectious enthusiasm for the subject.

 

     I woke up on Sunday morning and felt compelled to backtrack 7 miles and attend worship in Lenox that morning.  It was an uphill climb to get to the chapel, but it was strangely invigorating to see the familiar farms and breathe in the familiar smells once again.

 

     When I arrived at the chapel to worship for the first time in over 50 years, I was disappointed to see that someone was already in my pew.  Though I knew it would be inappropriate to point this out, I chose another spot- where once upon a time, the woman with the dead fox around her neck sat.

 

     After a moment of silence, the celebrant rose to offer the liturgical greeting, and it took my breath away.  I remembered my father vested and standing in that spot.  He was in his early 30’s then, and it is hard to believe that he was once so young.  When I last sat in that place, I believed that adults knew how things worked.   Periodically, I would ponder how they knew the answer to life’s question such as: when to get up in the morning and when to go to bed? How do we decide what to wear each day? what do you prepare for dinner?,  when is it permissible to open presents on Christmas morning?, when can we go swimming?, when is it permissible to ignore rules?  How do you know if you’re sick enough to miss school? How long does it take to grow up?

 

     To the extent I thought about it all, I thought that there must a master book of answers to question much like inside the lid of board games.  It is always a source of comfort to know that there is someone close by who appeared to know the rules.

 

     It was unsettling to consider that as my father stood there as a very young man, he was every bit as confused and uncertain as I have been most of my life.  Like me, he made up rules and presented them as if they were commandments carved on tablets.  He would but on the persona of confidence and proclaim, “It is thus!”  I know wonder how he coped with uncertainty and internal conflict.  Adults become experts in hiding such things from children.

 

      The priest preached an excellent sermon Jesus calming of the sea, though his lovely words were eclipsed by the delightful periodic gurgles of a toddler in the back of the church.  I was brought back to a time when my younger sister was brought in the church at that age.  One thing I always enjoyed as a child is watching adults feeling conflicted about whether to smile at delightful interruptions or to stick with doing things “decently and in order”. 

 

      When we went forward for communion, we sang the hymn “Just as I am”.  I have never been particularly fond of that hymn.  The melodramatic minor key has always struck me as emotionally manipulative.  On that morning, however, it reduced me to tears:

 

Just as I am, though tossed about

With many a conflict, many a doubt

Fightings and fears within without

O Lamb of God, I come, I come

 

     After brief conversations with members of the congregation (most of whom had not yet been born when I last attended) I climbed on my bike and, in spite of the rain being forecasted, I began cycling to Bernardston, to visit Bill and Tracy Murray.

Days 89-91 Weedsport, N.Y. to Pittsfield, Mass.

 

Days 89-91

Weedsport, N.Y. to Pittsfield, Mass.

      I left Weedsport intending to visit my cousin, Andy Beach, for the first time in many years. As I was cycling towards Delta Lake State Park where he keeps a camper for much of the summer, received a text that his wife, Michelle, has just tested positive for Covid. Though I was very disappointed, this unexpected turn of events allowed to get caught up on my schedule. My sister and mother are scheduled to meet me in Worcester, Mass. on Friday, August 18th and I needed to speed up to make it there on time.

      As mentioned in a previous post, I called Denise who agreed to meet me in Amsterdam, N.Y. and to spend a day exploring that section of the trail. This thrilled me and encouraged me to pedal faster so as to be there when she arrived. The bike trail is particularly attractive in approaching Amsterdam. The surface is improved and the rider can view the rolling hills as the trail hugs the banks of the Mohawk River.

      After exploring the area for a day, Denise offered me and my bike a ride to Lee, Mass on her way back to Saugus. It just so happened that this saved me a 1,500 foot climb up the Berkshire Mountains. She dropped me off in town and I headed north to Pittsfield, Mass. I was planning to bike through the outskirts of Lenox, where I spent a good bit of my childhood and still holds a special place in my heart.

     If you inform the GPS that you are cycling between points you are directed away from all paved roads. This is not always desirable. In this instance, it took me along the gravel road which passes through the October Mountain State Forest which would do significant damage to automobiles. The hills were steep and the terrain more treacherous than anything I had experienced in South Dakota. There had been heavy rain the previous night which made it necessary to push my bike through a mile of heavy mud. The mosquitoes were ferocious and delighted in attacking someone whose hands are occupied with a rebellious bicycle. Though the scenery was beautiful, I was not in a state to appreciate it.

      After eight miles, the road became paved and the forest gave way to small farms. I had reached New Lenox Road which was the street where I had lived as a young child. The point where the pavement ended was very familiar to me. As a child I was given a bicycle and free rein to explore wherever my curiosity led me. Although my curiosity was great, it was not enough to push me into the forest. The forest appeared to be a hostile place. I now know my hesitation was well founded

     When I reached the familiar pavement, I was transported back in time. The farms and houses of my childhood were still there. The unique smell of the vegetation triggered powerful memories. The road continued over a bridge crossing the Housatonic River. I remembered nearly 60 years ago when that bridge had been completed and was named after a local boy who had been killed in Viet Nam. The naming ceremony contained a real 21 gun salute which made a profound impact on me.

     I peddled half a mile further and reached St. Helena’s Chapel, the small, rural Episcopal Church where my father had served in the 60’s. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was surprised that the door was unlocked. Upon entering I was able to locate the pew I had once sat as a child. The smell of dust, books, bricks, wood stain, flooded my brain. On that quiet Saturday afternoon, I could hear the birds outside sounding just as they had in the distant past.

     Sitting in the pew, I drank in my surroundings and memories of forgotten events returned to me. When I had last sat in that spot, everyone I had ever known was still alive. I remembered some of the people who had once occupied that place. I remember this as a place where even adults became quiet. In my universe, adults were always speaking and I felt that every one of them had something of great importance to say, though I generally found their sentiments incomprehensible. I remembered the woman sitting in front of me who throughout the winter would wear a coat with a collar made of fox. The fox’s head was still attached as she sat he looked at me look with his glass eyes. This both fascinated and repulsed me. I found myself wanting to pet it, but suspected that would be considered inappropriate.

     When I last sat in that place, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that adults could sometimes be cruel. It was clear to me that children could be cruel (generally demonstrated the millisecond an adult left the room), but the gentle conspiracy of kindness agreed to by adults protected me and my peers from seeing the destruction wrought by fearful and powerful men. Hitler, Stalin, and Pol Pot were names I had not learned. MLK was still alive, students had not been killed at Kent State, and the Pentagon Papers had not been released. It was not considered important that elementary school children know the word “impeach”.

     A large part of this conspiracy of kindness was carried out by those who worshipped every Sunday at St. Helena’s Chapel. These adults who were so strangely quiet in church were delightfully noisy at other times. They created a space which welcomed me and other children. I remember some who clearly found it awkward to talk with children. This created a more level playing field, because I found it difficult to talk with adults.

     When the Trappist monk, Thomas Merton, was hospitalized with a serious illness, he fell in love with his nurse. He wrote this poem to express the awkwardness and power of this love:

Love is not itself

Until it knows it is frail

And can go wrong

It does not run

Like a well-oiled machine…

Love runs best

When it seems to break down…

     None of the people gathered in that church ever stated that they loved me. I certainly never stated that I loved them. It was the gentle (and sometimes very peculiar) souls that gathered in that place touched me as I sat alone in that chapel.

     I was reminded of the wonderful passage written by Frederick Buechner in his book “The Sacred Journey” about the great figures of his childhood:

“…How they do live, the giants of our childhood, and how well they manage to take even death in their stride because although death can put an end to them right enough, it can never put an end to our relationship with them. Wherever or however else they may have come to life since, it is beyond a doubt that they still live in us. Memory is more than a looking back to a time that is no longer; it is a looking out into another kind of time altogether where everything that ever was continues not just to be, but to grow and change with the life that is in it still. The people we loved. The people who loved us. The people who, for good or ill, taught us things. Dead and gone though they may be, as we come to understand them in new ways, it is as though they come to understand us-through them we come to understand ourselves-in new ways too. Who knows what the “communion of saints” means, but surely it means more than just that ware all of us haunted by ghosts because they are not ghosts, these people we once knew, not just echoes of voices that have years since ceased to speak, but saints in the sense that through them something of the power and richness of lift itself not only touched us once long ago, but continues to touch us. They have their own business to get on with now, I assume-“increasing in knowledge and love of Thee” says the Book of Common Prayer, and moving “from strength to strength” which sounds like business enough for anybody-and one imagines all of us on this shore fading for them as they journey ahead toward whatever ne shore may await them; but is as if they carry something of us on their way as we assuredly carry something of them on ours. That is perhaps why to think of them is a matter not only of remembering them as they used to be but of seeing and hearing them as in some sense they are now. If they had things to say to us then, they have things to say to us now too, nor are they by any means always things we expect or the same things.”

     I know now that horrible things were happening in the world as I lived in that place in blissful ignorance. I am, however, grateful their conspiracy delayed the day when I would eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

     I climbed back on my bicycle to continue to ride to Pittsfield, where Matt Albert was preparing dinner for me. The silence of the ride allowed me to digest the thoughts and feelings welling up inside of me.