Sharing

This morning I piece together breakfast by stopping at three different places during the first mile. Is this meal adequate for today’s walk to Narragansett? Charlestown is not known for its abundance of restaurants and cafes. As I continue my walk, in what promises to be a beautiful spring day in May, I’m preoccupied with a line from the film, The Devil Wears Prada, in which Meryl Streep says to her office assistant, “What do you want my twins to do with one copy of Harry Potter, share?” Streep delivers the line with a high level of disgust in her voice letting us know that the answer is definitely no. The topic preoccupies me as I walk along busy Route 1 North. Clearly the rushing cars do not want to share the road with me. I’m the intruder and I have no rights, although a big yellow  road sign suggests otherwise.

Why are we so averse to sharing? Does it make us feel too needy and vulnerable? Here I am making a pilgrimage from Cheyney to Boston, and my primary objective is to share Nathaniel’s story, in the hopes that my listeners will in turn share their stories with me. Is such behavior in the 21^st century considered outdated?

Abandoning Route 1 in pedestrian disgust, I try Route 1A. Wow, that’s much better, although the level of sharing here might escape the untrained eye. I go several hundred feet when the GPS suggests that I turn onto a dirt road. Why not? Desperate for small and quiet, I comply. Quickly the dirt road turns into a narrow forest path—beautiful and peaceful with no cars in sight. I spontaneously decide to walk in the middle of the road, with the basic understanding that if a car comes around the corner, I promise to share the road. None come my way. A collection of no trespassing signs suddenly appear reminding me that I’m on a private road and that I should make a u-turn and leave right now. In other words, “Scram, Asselin!” In my book, that’s not sharing. Nevertheless, I keep walking on. According to Google Map and my GPS, I have the right to walk here. Will that stand up in trespassing court? Staying firm in my resolve, I enjoy two miles in a wooded and peaceful setting without sharing one bit of it.  I’m in Camino heaven.

With only the things I carry in my backpack, I totally depend on host families to share their homes with me as I pass through. It’s those opportunities that have made my travels so worthwhile. When we sit down at the table and share a meal, I have an opportunity to share the story of Nathaniel’s life and illness. In turn, host families share their stories too. I like to think that this special arrangement benefits both guest and host. Expensive hotels with all their endless amenities are poor in comparison to what my host families share with me. I depend on the kindness of others to survive.

By late afternoon, I’m still walking, this time in a more northerly direction. For the most part, I am finished walking any further east. The ocean breeze is blowing cool air over land providing me with welcome relief. Is that Mother Nature sharing her resources again? What am I doing to pay her back for her generosity of spirit? I finally enter the town of Narragansett, happy to live in this world with the basic understanding that if I am to be here, I need to both give and receive. That’s what sharing is about. My host family, Sue Hoaglund (former Shipley colleague and friend), her husband Dennis, and two kids, Julia and Anne Meiliu, welcome me in, sharing their home and their lives tonight and tomorrow. What abundance there is in sharing.

Last evening after a delicious vegetable pasta dinner, Casey (my host) and I went to the movies in Mystic (yes, by car, and no, not metered) to see the Quebecois film, Monsieur Lazhar. We were not disappointed. It’s an amazing, feel-good film about teaching that takes place near Montreal. Highly recommended (four stars), but beware that the topic of suicide and of dealing with grief and loss is at the heart of the plot. I was OK with it too. Isn’t that exactly what my walking to Boston is about?

A good night’s sleep is topped off with an early morning tour of the tiny seaside village of Stonington. The place is picture perfect–a dream come true for those seeking the feel of a small town of the past that still is in the present. Just when I thought my Stonington experience  couldn’t get any better, we have breakfast at Noah’s. According to our waitress, Melissa, I’ve choose the signature breakfast entree–wild blueberry pancakes. Yum! Both Noah’s and Melissa will appear in the new film, Hope Springs, starring Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones out this summer. Although Stonington is transformed into a little Maine town in the film, it’s still 100% Stonington.

Then off I go in an easterly direction following the infamous (and at times eternal) Routes 1 and 1A that hug the southern New England coast. Within an hour and a half, I cross the tiny river into Westerly, RI. Goodbye, Connecticut.

A coffee-shop stop to celebrate is warranted. It’s here that I meet Jennifer sitting at the table next to me. She wants to know what I’m doing. Someone is actually asking me first! In the telling, I quickly learn about her own struggles with brain issues, and we’re quickly on the same wave length. Listening to the struggles of others quiets my own narrative.

In the afternoon, Route 1 slowly  becomes interminable. This is when a motel needs to appear. And it does, in the form of Hathaway’s Guest Cottages. I even get to pick which cabin I want, my very own little house away from home. I choose number 7. The cute-factor is high, especially the hammock in front of the cottage. Cindy, the proprietor, must assume that no hammock scene is complete without a cold beer. She quickly offers me one, and I accept.

Today’s accomplishments are major milestones. Here they are: I’ve been on the road for 30 days (one month). I’ve logged 401 miles by foot. I’ve crossed four states with only two to go. I’m very encouraged. Tomorrow, I head for Narragansett.

What Carrie Carries

I wake up to more luxuries than I’m accustomed to on the Camino de Nathaniel. The Mystic Marriott Hotel & Spain in Groton serves a thin slice of the world population—a sliver that I’m usually not a part of. But the accommodations are free. Thank you, Marriott!

It’s raining at breakfast and I’m definitely stalling in the restaurant in the hotel lobby. June, the hostess, and Natalie, the waitress, at the Octagon Restaurant (connected to the hotel) personalize my breakfast experience in this beautiful and rather opulent setting. There are always listening ears along the road, and theirs are attentive as I talk of my walk.

As I repack my backpack, I realize that I described in a previous blog what I carry inside, but I haven’t spoken about the pack itself. It belongs to Carrie, and I’m so pleased to be using it for this pilgrimage. Every time I put it on or take it off, I think of her. As I carry it daily, I think about what Carrie carries every day in her “backpack of life.” Her brother, Nathaniel, was her first and best friend. Parents are not always privileged to know and understand fully the deep bond between their children. I do know, however, that hers and Nathaniel’s was incredibly special.

I have lost my parents, relatives, and some dear friends, but never a sibling. Carrie has. And now in our family of three, she is it on the offspring front. There are families who only have one child, but not many of them become only children through loss. Forging a new identity and envisioning a future without Nathaniel must be monumental work for her. It certainly is for parents who have lost a child, but at least Judy and I still have each other.

What Carrie carries is a heavy load, one that I can’t do anything about. I am comforted to see Nathaniel’s best friends, the Furious Five (Carl, Dan, Justin, and Nate) bringing her into their circle. Like her close cousins and special friends, they are becoming like siblings, but they are not Nathaniel. What Carrie carries is heavier than the pack on my back today. Although I hope the weight will lessen with time, it will always be hard to carry. Carrying her backpack is the one thing I can do on this long journey to Boston. I hope it lightens her load just a little bit.

P.S. I pass Mystic, CT in the mist. How appropriate! The address I have for this evening’s accommodations (Stu and Casey’s home–Shipley friends) takes me to one place, but my hosts live 4 miles further east. Google map likes the Denison Street in Mystic while the real Denison (the one I want) is in Stonington. The extra four miles of walk happens at the wrong time, because I get thoroughly soaked (again). I’m tired of this rain. When will it end? Tomorrow!

Crossing the Ocean of Doubt

Gayle and Jack at Willow Hill House send me off after a delicious “Southern-Hospitality-on-the-North-Fork” breakfast to Orient Point, the very tip of Long Island. It is from there that I will take the Cross Island Sound Ferry to New London and continue my pilgrimage toward Boston on the other side. There is a light mist blowing from the east that constantly wets my eyeglasses. If I am to see clearly today, I need to leave them off. Hmm!

I’m always aware that doubts might eventually find me on the path, and today they do. Although I’m walking quickly forward, they too are moving fast and eventually they overtake me. What am I thinking walking 500-plus miles? Why am I doing this difficult project? How is the world more informed about OCD/BDD by my passing? Who exactly is taking the time and making the effort to know more about Nathaniel’s story and his cruel brain disorder? Are the people I meet or who are following this blog telling others  about Nathaniel’s struggle and my pilgrimage to raise awareness about the disease? Does it matter that I blog daily even after a long day’s walk? Are there virtual companion walkers I cannot see?

This “Walking with Nathaniel” pilgrimage isn’t about me, although during my long days of solitude, plenty of me-thoughts do abound. The should-have’s slowly creep in and join the doubts. I should have contacted the press more. I should have built a larger network of Facebook friends. I should have twittered and tweeted and facebooked and used all those other fancy techno communication vehicles to spread the news far and wide.

Perhaps the poor cell phone reception at the tip of Long Island and the thick misty fog today are responsible for my weak sense of connection. No, this is not about despair, but simply about my wanting one young man’s brief life on earth to have made a difference.

It’s time for me to cross the Sound and trust that Connecticut is still on the other side, even though I can’t see it today. It was certainly there yesterday. Eventually the shores of Connecticut come into view. As I put my glasses back on, I say to myself, “Three states down (PA, NJ, and NY) and three more to go (CT, RI, and MA).” Wow! That’s big. I think I have just crossed victoriously today’s Ocean of Doubt. Join me and shout “Ultreya!” as loud as you can.

R & R

Following Judy’s sound advice, I decide to pamper myself with a second night at Willow Hill House in Southold with Gayle and Jack, my gracious hosts. The time off from walking will heal the body, mind, and spirit, and there is no more perfect spot to do so than right here.

After a super delicious breakfast, I tour the B & B grounds and chat about this and that with Jack. Given his age and huge reservoir of life experiences, he tells me so much about Long Island, this area, and life in general.

At noon, a former schoolmate from St. John’s, Ed Micca, whom I have not seen in well over 45 years, drives with his wife, Patty, to see me, and together we go visit the local lighthouse. I get to size-up once again the Connecticut shore across the blue waters of the Sound — tomorrow’s destination.

Rather than do the touristy thing, Ed and I gab away, bridging years of non-communication as fast as we can. Much is still left unsaid due to time constraints, but what is said shortens the divide of many years. Once a Montourian, always a Montourian (Montour Falls is the town south of Watkins Glen at the bottom tip of Lake Seneca, one of the New York Finger Lakes, where I went to high school.) Since Ed and I will see each other again next month at the big reunion, we let go of the urgency to try to cover everything.

Tomorrow to Orient Point I go. I am to take the ferry to New London and not swim, right? I can almost hear the resounding chorus of “permission granted!”