Open Door

      Sometimes even to live is an act

      of courage.

      Seneca, 4 bce–ce 65

      One

      How beautiful.

      The late afternoon sun has turned windows in buildings along the Charles River into golden mirrors. Light shines through the few leaves still clinging to the giant oaks. The wind plays its timeless game with the leaves. One moment it blows hard to make them flutter and wave. Then it dies down to leave them hanging quiet and still, waiting for a new gust.

      Eight women in a racing boat are rowing hard as they approach the Weeks Bridge. Their oars kiss the water’s surface in perfect rhythm. A motorboat moves along beside, and a woman with a blond ponytail tucked in a Harvard baseball cap leans over the side, shouting instructions and encouragement through a megaphone.

      The boat disappears under the bridge, comes out the other side, and continues on its way, slicing smoothly through the calm water. I feel a pulse as I watch them speed down the river. It’s a drumbeat so low it can only be felt, not heard. It’s the rowers’ hearts, beating together as one as they row together like an engine made of flesh and bone. The pulse grows fainter as the boat, tiny as a bathtub toy, disappears around a bend in the river.

      I’m sitting alongside the riverbank, leaning against a tree on a sunny Saturday afternoon in early fall. The grass and walkways along the river are filled with walkers and joggers and bike riders. A group of people playing volleyball on the lawn behind the Kennedy School laughs and shouts. The day seems cool to picnic, but a few blankets are spread out on the lawn. A young couple is smiling at their child, a toddler with a pink ribbon in her hair. The little one has just taken a bite of a pickle and can’t decide if she likes it. She frowns for a moment, then breaks out in a giggle.

      The students are back at Harvard after their summer break and they are buzzing with the excitement of the new school year. It is strange that I keep coming back to this place that’s such a big a part of the life I’ve left behind. Or maybe it’s a life that left me. The memories are painful and strong, and perhaps I shouldn’t be here. But on such a beautiful day it’s hard to stay away.

      As the afternoon shadows grow ­longer, the air is turning cold. The young family is packing up their basket. The volleyball game is over, and players start taking down the net. I rise from the grass, brush the leaves from my clothes, and start to walk along the river toward Boston.

      A woman is slowly pushing a baby carriage. The baby reaches out with both arms, wiggling her fingers, learning how they work. Our eyes meet and I see her look of wonder. An old soul fascinated by her new body. I smile as her mother tosses me a nervous glance and pushes the carriage faster.

      I wish I could talk to the little one, try to explain how the world she’s landed on can be so beautiful and horrible at the same time. But I can’t. I would just frighten her mother. I feel a moment of sadness as I stop and watch the carriage move away.

      But just then a single oak leaf falls to the sidewalk, glowing orange and red, and covered with delicate yellow veins. It was born as a bud that burst into brief green life and chose this moment to break free from its branch. Like a brightly colored bird on its first and only flight, it has drifted to the pavement at my feet.

      The leaf lifts my spirit. I suddenly feel the blood moving through my own veins, the sap that fuels my body. When I’m feeling this way I have to be careful not to attract attention. I have to remember not to dance on a street corner when I hear a certain song on a car radio. Not to stand on the sidewalk laughing at a clever display in a store window. Because people are watching. They’re always watching.

      I will feel the heat and see the judgment in their eyes. Then my winds shift. My thoughts turn thick and heavy, and every passing face is made of stone. And the great black swirling cloud that no one else can see floats above my head. It follows me as it always follows, with the patience of a vulture.

      For the moment, thanks to a random leaf, I am safe inside my bubble. And my bubble will carry me into Boston to find somewhere warm to sit until the stars come out. And then I will go to the place where, for tonight at least, I will sleep.

      Walking calms me at times like these. My mind begins to rest on the rhythm of my footsteps on the ground. Soon I’ve walked all the way to Copley Square. And as long as I keep moving, I’m warm.

      Two

      The sidewalks are jammed. Tourists in brand-­new Red Sox caps. Shoppers with bags from expensive stores. The street ven­dor shouting about his “world-­famous” hot dogs. A young boy is flipping a coin high in the air and catching it as he walks. The coin climbs to the same height with each toss and lands on his palm, exactly in the middle, every third step. He takes two steps to prepare for the next throw and on the third step sends the coin flying once more.

      Then, he misses the coin. It hits the sidewalk and starts to roll away. The boy doesn’t chase after it. He freezes like a statue, watching it roll, and nothing moves but his eyes. Only after it slows, falls over, and comes to rest on the pavement does the statue come back to life. He calmly walks over to pick it up and starts again. How serious and precise he is. The game he’s playing is something I might have done myself when I was his age, when I still knew what it was like to be free of cares.

      I move on from this distraction. What I really came here for was to find King Leonard. Suddenly there he is, exactly where I expected, sitting on his bench by the fountain. As usual, he’s wearing his special robe and headpiece, both made of heavy-­duty black garbage bags. His feet are wrapped in shoes made of the same material. He sits calmly, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. I don’t approach him immediately. I like