Choices

How many choices do we make in a single day? Fifty, a hundred, a thousand? And of those choices, how many are simple decisions like what to eat and how much, or which route to take on your drive home? What of those choices that carry more importance like whether you’ll quit your job, ask someone to marry you, spend money you don’t have, have the baby.  Each choice, large and small, has a reward or a consequence, and nowhere in our imaginations is there a thought that one seemingly harmless choice could carry a weight we may not have the strength to bear. Sometimes, that is precisely what happens.

Sixteen years ago, Ken and I made the choice to move to Massachusetts for a new job and the reward of a better quality of life for our family. It has taken a long time for me to feel at home here, as I had left many friends behind, both mine and those of our children. The closest family members are three hours from here. The transition wasn’t easy, but at some point along the way, I chose to bloom where I was planted.

That choice, like so many choices I’ve made, was for the stability and happiness of my husband and children. Massachusetts is a fantastic place to live, a place full of culture, of natural beauty, of devoted Red Sox fans. We have the best hospitals in the world, some of the best colleges and universities, parks and beaches. Boston has duck boats. Boston has the North End and the Freedom Trail, the Public Garden and Faneuil Hall. We have Quincy Market.

We celebrate Patriot’s Day, and on Patriot’s Day, we have the Boston Marathon.

Thousands of people made the choice to take part in the Marathon as runners, helpers, spectators or fundraisers. There were people of all ages who ran for the sake of running, the challenge of Heartbreak Hill, in memory of or in honor of someone special, or to proudly say they’d done it. Mothers and fathers brought their children, choosing that day to do something fun and exciting, perhaps something out of the ordinary. Some came to support friends or family who had qualified after training for months. For some it was a first foray into an important part of the culture of Boston, while for others, it was a tradition begun years ago.

That Monday, April 15, 2013, the Boston Marathon became a place where tragedy, incomprehensible and heartbreaking, would take the place of an ordinary day. Someone made a choice to place pressure-cooker bombs in benign-looking trash cans. Someone packed each one with BBs, nails and metal brads along with explosives. Someone wanted to inflict grave harm, to make innocent people suffer trauma, injury or death.  The choice was so fraught with hatred that no one standing ten deep in front of the grandstand could have possibly understood it. Who can truly understand that kind of evil intent?

Certainly not an eight-year old boy holding a sign that read, “No more hurting people. Peace”. Certainly not his father, mother and sister standing with him. Certainly not two young women who had their whole lives ahead of them.  And certainly none of the men, women and children whose blood pooled in the street by the finish line.

It’s impossible not to think of the simple choices made that day by a staggering number of unsuspecting victims. Where shall we stand? What time should we stand there? Shall we stay a bit longer? They will never, ever forget what they said to themselves that day, in full expectation of the happy rewards inherent in the spectacle of the triumphant finishers. In the pursuit of an extraordinary day, they instead came away to sit vigil with memories of chaos and pain, loss and grief.

We lost our innocence that day, but not our resolve to maintain our exuberance for life despite the sick efforts of others to erase it.

 As long as I live, New York will always be my first home. But two days ago, on a beautiful sun-filled afternoon of devastating consequences, Massachusetts became my true home. That is my choice. I stand with Boston Strong.



I have asked a friend and fellow writer for her permission to print a powerful piece she wrote on the subject of the Boston Marathon bombings. She has kindly allowed it.

GUEST POST:  by Evelyn Zepf

April 15,2013

 

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters; how they understood

 Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating, or opening a window,

or just walking dully along

                                                W.H.Auden – Musée des Beaux Arts

 

I think of this poem whenever I hear of senseless, brutal violence against innocents.  After the sick churning in my stomach has passed, and the tears that well up in my eyes have dried on my cheeks; after I see in my imagination what people must be experiencing when their normal lives become a tragedy in just an instant – then, as I come back to myself and feel the sun on my face, I continue on with the task at hand, and I think of this poem:

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters; how they understood

 Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating, or opening a window,

or just walking dully along

 

After learning of disaster, we have to choose how to respond.  If there is no immediate connection, nobody to go to to offer comfort or practical help; if, practically speaking there is no action to take that will make a difference at this moment; I carry on, drive home, cut up vegetables and eat dinner.  My life goes on, but what do I do with the residual miasma of sadness and dread that lingers?  Is there any practical action to take to counter adversity?  Should I tense up, avoid crowds, make my children move out of the city, be ever vigilant?  All of that is energy wasted.  There is no protection against random violence.

 

I choose to let the emotions wash over me.  The miasma of sadness and dread will linger until a breeze blows it away and I recognize that there is still joy in the world, still the joy of simply living.  I know there is pain and suffering but I also know that joy is inherent in the universe. 

As long as I have a choice, I must choose joy.