This is one of several blog entries that I'd begun the weekend of November 4th.
When you inspire others through love and positive energy, you live forever in their hearts; and thus is the face of mankind forever altered, and infinitely improved.
My sister Barbara never did anything without doing it well. Whether it was shopping for groceries, or building a furniture business, it was undertaken with the same determination to do it the best way possible.
She loved to hike - it was possibly her favorite thing in the world. And for Bostonians, that means you are intimately familiar with the Blue Hills Reservation. The location derives its name from early European settlers who, while sailing the coast, noted the bluish hue in the hills just southwest of Boston. In fact, the name Massachusetts comes from the native occupants of the hills, who called themselves Massachusett, meaning "People of the great hills". The hills themselves aren't huge - the tallest is 635 feet - but they are pocked with steep, craggy climbs that can challenge even seasoned hikers. Barbara loved to lure friends and family into hikes there, then challenge them with races to the top, followed by races back down. Taken at a fast pace, the ascent is trying - your thighs will burn and you'll soon be sucking air. But truthfully, its the descent that can kill you.
It was only natural that we'd arrange a memorial hike for family and friends there. We started at Houghton Pond, gathering in the crisp morning air to exchange hugs and hot chocolate. We began with some ad-hoc speeches, memories and testimonials, conducted 'round a circle in a small overlook. A stiff, cold breeze from the pond made us draw ever closer, and I began to wonder if I'd made a mistake by wearing hiking shorts - by the end, I was shivering almost uncontrollably.
From there, our entourage snaked along Hillside Street, making our way to the head of the Skyline Loop Trail. I ran the first several hundred feet of the trail before I had to stop for breath. I could almost hear Barbara teasing me as she blazed past and ran ahead.
Once at the top, we had to wait nearly an hour for stragglers to catch up. It was a good time to take some photos and watch people interact. It was while taking photos that I noticed the blue backpack sitting on a rock, overlooking the group. It was Barbara's day pack. Suddenly, I was struck by the realization that Barbara's urn was in that backpack. It was one of those hyper-lucent moments when something that had been hazy and distant in your mind instantly crystalizes into sharp focus:
she is gone.
The second moment, for me, came after everyone had finally gathered. Through the dense fog of my thoughts, I heard some words, and finally the urn was taken from the backpack. What a gorgeous piece, hand carved of exotic wood. The urn was opened and, one by one, the contents were sifted into waiting hands, to be distributed among the pines and brambles along the trail's peak. That clear moment hit me like a rail-splitter, and I nearly collapsed with emotion. I don't recall much of what happened after that, except that at some point after the ashes had been distributed, I decided I had to leave. I bolted headlong down the trail, raw emotion flowing from my eyes like a wellspring. I think I passed some hikers at one point - I must have been a sight. I don't know how long I ran before I determined I was lost. Finally, I collapsed on a rock, exhausted, and just stared up at the gorgeous blue sky, watching the clouds pass overhead.
When I'd finally traced my way back to the peak, everyone was still there. I stepped off the trail to skirt the gathering, located the cairn that marked our trail and commenced running again. I ran the entire length of the trail, back to the head, and then another half mile to the parking lot.
I am not a runner, by any stretch of the imagination. But I never felt winded. I suppose it was my way of saying goodbye, and it was Barbara's way of helping me do it.
