Something Transcendental

Growing up in eastern Massachusetts, it was a given I should run into the deeply historical roots buried here beneath the soil of modern life. The faces of great writers and patriots decorated my view upon every turn and in my youth I was compelled to emulate them. I was positive this was the right path in life and if I could not at least emulate them, I would become acquainted with them.

Fuller, Hawthorne, Emerson, Alcott, Thoreau; their names and faces would soon give leeway to secrets from the beyond in their portraits and literary works. If I were to reside here, I assumed, I could discover what my role models had touched upon and see it for myself.

However, my affiliations began with the nameless Minutemen of textbooks and the lingering New England patriotism. My young mind was drawn to the concepts for which they became symbolic of: liberty and this sense of inevitable justice.

My first at hand experience was the same as other children my age here in this part of the state: the traditional field trip to the North Bridge in Historic Concord. How lucky was I to be so close to what I considered birthplace of America? My little minds eye saw the battle that took place centuries before my arrival and my young imagination became possessed with the ideas that began this nation. Gazing upon the embattled farmer that sported Ralph Waldo's "Concord Hymn" sparked a light and I hoped to ingrain them in my being and into my character.

This historic town and these grounds began to grow on me and my pursuit for this feeling began to cultivate and remained an integral part of me, even if only in visitation. I found myself wandering to this same location throughout the years, at times for a sense of adventure and others for silent solace for a place that felt more like home than any other.

With a stroke of luck, I began a position at the Old Manse, an 18th century personage built by locally named patriotic pastor William Emerson. It eventually became home to famous literary figures such as Emerson and Hawthorne. My time here is where I became further invested in this men who would become almost like friends with the passage of time. These surnames had come across my radar more than one occasion. I can recall an admiration for quotes of them and Thoreau and adapted their wise words into my life as beacons of hope. A sign that I was on the right path one could even suggest.

To stand where they stood was more precious to me than the pay. I would often spend time in the famous study that witnessed two revolutions. I often would stare out the window and try to unveil what inspired Emerson to capture the essence of God in the same view years before.

My time spent here was a small measure of peace, a new way of living and despite my lack of language to articulate it as my own personal heroes, I too began to understand the underlying current behind the movement.

I began to expand my footing in this small town. To the Alcott House, Thoreau Farm, The Robbins House and the Great Meadows. I walked where they walked and pondered my own ideologies upon their foundation. The scenery is breathtaking beyond measure and in more than just aesthetics. I have come to realize I am not the only pilgrim here seeking to touch the edge of greatness.

There is something sacred here, something that I have become familiar with. From the library I write this small dissertation and from out the window I look to the gentle new coming snow. Once again I am surrounded by these figures and their likeness with each step, however much older and yet still curious to discover more. I hope something profoundly transcendental.