View from the Pier

Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity
for taking things for granted.
- Aldous Huxley, 1894-1963

Nahant, Massachusetts

This image was taken on New Year’s Day in my proverbial backyard, at Short Beach in Nahant, Massachusetts, a mere ten-minute walk from my house.  On this occasion I happened to be driving by, when the red ribbons tied on the bench caught my eye.  I gave a little cry of delight, pulled over, grabbed my camera and took a few shots, with a big grin on my face.  I silently thanked whoever had the presence of mind to adorn this stretch of sandy shoreline and remind passers-by like me what a gift we have in Nahant’s many beaches.

Nahant is a town in Essex County, Massachusetts, 12 miles north of Boston. The population was 3,632 at the 2000 census. With just 1.2 square miles of land area, it is the smallest municipality in the state.  A rocky peninsula that juts into Massachusetts Bay, Native Americans called the area “Nahant,” meaning “the point” or “almost an island.”  The patch of land was first settled in 1630, in the second year of the Puritan coming, and was used for grazing cattle, sheep and goats.

Before 1800 there were only three homes on the island. The first hotel was built in 1802, and by 1817 a steamboat ran daily between Boston and Nahant. The town was originally part of Lynn, but when the temperance movement threatened the summer resort trade in 1853, Nahant incorporated as a separate town. In the late 19th century, it was home to some of the country’s first amusement parks, as well as being a popular seaside retreat for the wealthy.  Calvin Coolidge, Henry Cabot Lodge and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow are among those who summered here.

“Summer in Nahant and Some Aren”t” is a slogan a clever local coined, one that is used on fundraising paraphernalia for the town’s annual Fourth of July celebration.  The fireworks show here ignites a display of community spirit that is truly a Norman Rockwell experience, and vivid in my mind even on a gray winter day.

At dusk on the Fourth, across this tiny enclave throngs of people emerge from their homes, forming a wave of humanity that glides to the beach, where the pyrotechnics are launched.  Sun-burned, pot-bellied fathers hold the tiny hands of toddlers sporting star-shaped sunglasses and together they take baby steps.  A pack of teenagers swarms around their Alpha Dog, discernible by his cocky swagger and arm possessively curled around the shoulder of his regal queen.  Her ladies-in-waiting giggle and prance, exchanging sparks with the skinny, studiously cool boys striding alongside them, their hands shoved into their jeans pockets.  White-haired, weathered couples watch their footing and creep along, no longer willing to be rushed for anything.

Everyone wears red, white and blue.  The smell of bar-b-ques, beer and sun tan lotion permeates the thick July air.  There is a hum of people having a good time that later explodes in a rousing hymn of thanks when the night is spangled with fiery patriotism.  The swirls and exclamation marks in the sky incite a groundswell of thunderous oohs and ahhs, capped by babies’ screams and the acrid smell of smoke.

The finale concludes with bravado and cheers; I always feel tears well up, of profound gratitude for having found my home in the world here.  For the awkward adolescent who still dwells within in me, who always felt the outsider looking in as the “new kid” at six schools in four years, this night represents a sense of belonging for which I long ached.

On the other 364 days of the year, I am often not so sanguine about life and how I seem to be fitting into it.  A control freak from a young age, I have been known to need a master “to do” list to keep track of all my multiple agendas for Life.  This frequently sets me up for disappointment and frustration, as Life often has a game plan that conflicts with my expectations.  Arm-wrestling with the Universe can be exhausting.

The introduction of English writer Aldous Huxley’s best-known work, “Brave New World,” refers to an early experience of “an ordered universe in a world of planless incoherence” as a source for the novel.  Huxley’s mother died when he was 14. At the age of 17, he suffered an illness that caused him to lose his sight for three years.  When Huxley was 26, his younger brother committed suicide.

Huxley’s search for meaning in the chaos of his world famously included years of psychedelic drug use, described in the essays “The Doors of Perception,” from which Jim Morrison got the name for his band.  Huxley took 100 micrograms of LSD as he lay dying from cancer.

Less known about Huxley’s search for enlightenment is that it also included Veda-Centric Hinduism, meditation, and vegetarianism.  He also authored “The Perennial Philosophy,” which discusses the teachings of renowned mystics of the world.  From 1939 until his death in 1963, Huxley had an ongoing association with the Vedanta Society of Southern California, founded and headed by Swami Prabhavananda.

My quest for meaning is less dramatic—although you wouldn’t necessarily think so if forced to listen to one of my soliloquies!

A simple exercise was suggested to me a few years ago that I have found to be of immense value in taking less for granted the day’s treasures:  writing a gratitude list.  This daily act, which began as a struggle to see much of anything to be thankful for, has evolved into a precious 20 minutes that helps me absorb and process and recognize that quite a few really wondrous things have in fact occurred in the span of my day. Often, the very things I am grateful for were not even dictated on my “to do” lists!  Over time, engaging in this practice has helped me better appreciate the significance of special moments when I am actually in them.  Without taking this pause to reflect, an awful lot would pass me by—including red ribbons on a seaside bench.

For more photos of Nahant, see the New England section of the site’s Travel Photos.