Copley Square

Emerging from the T stop, my wide eyes were running races through my skull and eagerness was bouncing through my toes. The sun hitting the sweet spot of the square, illuminating the youthful visitors deliberately placed across its perimeter, each another individual unique brick in the wall. The mosaic of people building the composite of worshippers that once was the congregation of Trinity Church. All roads lead back to Rome and all answers are housed in the home of g-d. In the rushing wind, I feel those answers whipping across my body, but what’s kind of funny is that my g-d is not doing the talking. I could write a completely different story about which religion got it right or if each religion is simply a faith remix, but nevertheless, this message was different than any other g-dly message I have received-it felt right.

The maroon tiles of the walkway embody every shade of the human heart, the harshest force fighting to guide my life towards its true fulfillment. Mother Mary painted the unifying burgundy that beautifully garnishes the northern star of the square. Who does she belong to? My faith of HaShem or that of Jesus Christ whose marble idol rests in the center of the Garden of Eden. The stained glass stricken with his stories encapsulate the blooming garden supported by the Corinthian columns and followers’ faith. Is it sacreligious to find sanctuary in a house of worship that should not welcome me? Is Mother Mary playing the same tricks on me that echelons of skateboarders practice to perfection, performing for the youthful visitors that occupy their time on the same maroon tiles that both comfort and question me? Through the hospitality of g-d or maybe the passion of the people presently living their lives in this public plaza, I know why I am still alive. The whispering wind that once roared answers is replaced by a warm consoling sunlight validating the enlightenment that I hope to reach. The answer seemed so obvious, standing on the silver street surrounding Copley Square. Was Mother Mary specially watching over me or ordinarily everyone else too.

*****

I return to the same shady spot I previously sat in, ready for g-d to keep enlightening me and Mother Mary to whisper her words of wisdom, but they weren’t here today. For in this moment, I was submerged in darkness, but could see how close I was to the light. The harsh wind that was once comforting and wise now only freezes every constructive thought that comes across my mind. Each shiver shakes all the motivation to write, every goosebump leaves the lexicons of failure on every fiber of my being. Maybe I am a failure, and this unwarranted weather is supposed to snap me back into reality. To settle for a college degree in misery, parents (which is now not right word) that do not understand me, a society full of people like them that do not respect me and to once again put my dreams on the backburner, only this time turning it on. Jesus did not die so that people would never even risk sinning with good intent. My mom did not die so that I would never even try to live, even though sinning has evolved into a survival tactic. Do you think Robin Hood is rotting in hell or running in heaven? I sure as hell am not as noble as Robin Hood, but I don’t think that all the pain I have caused in scrupulous attempts at sovereign survival have earned me a spot in heaven. One day it’ll all make sense and sort itself out, but I wish that day was today.

Like everything else in my life, what I would like to happen is not happening. Instead of a meaningful muse, I have skateboarders coasting through the now arid fountain. The lack of water gave the skaters a new opportunity, but left my motivation dried up. The statue of Phillip Brooks, an Episcopal clergyman and bishop, stares straight into my soul through his marble eyes. A preacher should not judge his congregants and I too should not judge mine. You never know what ordinary moments could inspire hopefully quality writing.

******

And on a deceivingly not as nice day in Copley Square, most of my muses have run, or maybe skated, for the hills. The sun shines and the wind whips as a writer writes on her modernized pen and paper while the skater skates on his rustic reinvention of the cart and wheel. He must be wildly different then I am, choosing to skate with a t-shirt and well lived sneakers when I chose a warm sweater, windbreaker, and to rock new airmaxes. Something about him intrigues me, maybe his attractiveness, but for a fleeting moment, he was my muse. Most would initially look at him and see a dumbass kid that needs to grow up, as I did, but after watching him harness his craft, I now see a dreamer pursuing the visions he imagines. I wish he could read this or could have heard me say that I am proud of him. I am proud and thankful for the reminder that everyone is just trying to skate across the square or write a rhapsode worth reading. Just as he proudly embraces the skater aesthetic, serving as an emblem of the culture, I too need to. The only way for me to embody my destiny as a writer is to embrace everything that encapsulates the starving artist; including the pain and judgment that comes after the craft.

When this skater left, another arrived, promptly filling his spot. Although he had a different shade to his skin or hair on his head, the same sparkle in his eye and determination in his heart was there. It was an energy that you can feel, compelling me to tell Andy’s story. This particular skater was much more critical of himself, often freezing before given the chance to fail. One could say that his systematic approach to each skill shows dissatisfaction with his performance and thus connection to the culture. But I think that his technical tactics and desire for perfection tell a tale of deep respect and determination for his craft. When attempting to do some tricks, he places his hands in the heart center. Silencing his mind and praying for success and mastery. Maybe Mother Mary is really here and is specially talking to everyone that remembers and respects her and the lost souls of the forgotten congregation on the sacred grounds of Trinity Church.

Phillip Brooks once said “I wish I were fifteen years old again. I believe I might become a stunning man: but somehow or other I do not seem in the way to come to much now.” Rolling with the wise wind, our final skateboarder surfed by, waving at his brethren. His dirty blond curls bounced harmoniously as he glided past me, entering the talent filled arena. At this point, there are approximately six or seven skaters, but this cherubic rosy cheeked boy was different and worth writing about. He was wearing the same cultural attire as his peers: T-shirt in a wind tunnel, baggy pants, and worn flat sneakers. One article that stood out was his heart on his sleeve, his face answering all the questions I was too scared to ask him, and myself. Following the dare devil troupe of the skating community, he threw stunts more advanced than any of his peers. The first skater’s darting eyes met with the third skater’s, liters of love and ounces of envy in the single tear that fell, triggered by his raw soulful talent and inimitable skill. Equally landing and crashing, he did what any other skater wouldn’t dare doing-leaving the pack. The community and Copley Fountain can only do so much, if he stays then his talent will dry out like the arid dusty arena he skated in.

When he walked away to pursue more advanced tricks, he looked back with a longing in his eyes. His pupils widen as his brothers become smaller and smaller, but the love and respect they have for each other will never change. Brooks wishes to redo his youth, to make the choices that skateboarder number three did. I know that he will be a stunning man one day because he wasn’t afraid to leave his tribe in pursuit of his passion. He went to the steep steps of the Boston Public Library to jump and fall from greater heights. It was as if he was telling me that I too need to move on, to go to the library and type up this quirky little story I’ve been chipping away at. Except, I was like Brooks and didn’t have the balls to leave my Copley comfort zone, but I too hope for my words to be stunning one day. Only because he resembled the revered John Lennon, the creator of Mother Mary, did I eventually type this tale.

Then the most miraculous thing happened. I looked up from my paper tablet, the boujee pen and paper that I wrote most of this story on, and saw all three of them in front of me. Both skaters number one and three returned to accompany their friend. They cohabited effortlessly in their home harnessing the love and passion they have for skateboarding. The first skater lounged in the miniscule arena surrounding the fountain with his arms out ready for the embrace that will never come. His eyes and intentions were as clear as water, analyzing the motions of every performer around him, ready to give advice when Andy asked about how to improve his form. The third skater unsurprisingly skidded to his own secluded section of the stage. Skater number one watched him like a hawk, with jealousy or maybe pride; the answer only he knows. I think that he pridefully watches, like that one wise dad friend who is everyone’s biggest supporter. He was clearly older than the other two and hopefully wanted to save them from his mistakes.

They were all strategic and shed a new light on life that I needed to see. The first guy’s immersion and dedication combined with Andy's precision and methodology and the third skater’s courage is the approach that I, nay all of us, should apply to our passionate endeavors. To pour our heart and soul and brain into the uncharted journey that lies ahead.

Who could I possibly thank for everything that Copley has given me? John Singleton Copley, the portrait painter and Royal Academy of Art member, the namesake of this? Or perhaps Phillip Brooks, who preached his love of mankind to the open-hearted congregation of Trinity Church? Or all the skateboarders who performed for me as I hope to present to the world one day?

John Singleton Copley painted the portrait of who I want to be. Phillip Brooks wrote the sermon delivered by the wailing wind with Mother Mary’s words of wisdom infused into each whimsical whip, soothing my ever so troubled mind. The first skateboarder showed me to pour your mind, body and soul into my craft, unafraid of falling or failure. Andy taught me to appreciate the technique and practice in hopes of achieving mastery. The third skater was clearly better than the other two, but because he applies both mindsets of the skaters, he will never stop dreaming and his uncharted path will never end. These people are the heart and soul of Copley Square. Although they are not sitting in the pew’s of the church, I firmly believe that they all are fulfilling g-d’s duties and wishes. I, the skaters, Copley and the ghost of Brook’s future are the long lost congregants of Trinity Church. In some way shape or form, we all came to this glorious place looking for something. Whatever it was that we were searching for, I hope that everyone was able to find it… Together we found the most beautiful community- mankind.