A New Perspective
Shortly after Thanksgiving Day in November of 2023, I had an overarching desire to take accountability for my life and to pursue my personal goals. Up until this point, I had longed to continue my education yet hadn’t felt financially stable and worried about the outcome. I had decided that this was an undignified way to live life: to suppress your desires out of fear. I had begun to ask myself, “Will I regret not having done this more than I will regret having done it?” The answer was almost always yes, I will regret inaction more than a perceived failure. With the support of my doting friends/family, and the government’s financial aid, I finished my first semester of college with straight A’s in the cusp of Summer 2024. The day after my finals in May of 2024, I decided to take a much-deserved walk through the Olde Town of Harpers Ferry. As I trudged myself down the long hill of West Washington Street, also known as Main Street, I noticed a gleam throughout the town- one I hadn’t quite seen before.
I could quite literally feel the hopes and aspirations of everyone that walked here before me and the optimism surged through my veins. With this new sensation sweeping over me, I decided to make a conscious effort to enjoy the park rather than simply walk through it. Almost immediately, I took observation of the grass and the sporadic spots that had ceased growing due to heavy foot traffic. My imagination wondered to fathom how many people have walked this same path, both literally and figuratively. Synchronously, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass pops into my head and I envision the small child of Whitman’s story sitting on the plot of spotty grass in front of me, hands filled with the green vegetation and eyes filled with curiosity. The notion brings me to giggle at myself as I head towards Harpers Ferry’s infamous footbridge located to the right of the historic train tunnel.
While walking along, I acknowledge the countless locks that have been placed along the railings gate by lovers whose hearts may burst from joy and mourners whose hearts had burst from despair. Before today, I am not quite sure that I had ever taken notice that many of the locks on bridges are placed in memory of the deceased rather than being placed by the lively and in love. It is quite a romantic feat to eternalize your love by locking it upon a bridge high above the waters and within reach of only the Gods! I spent the next twenty minutes reading every memorial lock I could find, as well as a few of the older-looking lovers’ locks. I was touched by the reminder of how powerful love is; dead or alive, you will be loved. After viewing as many locks as I could, I whipped my disposable camera out and took a photo of one of the ‘memorial walls’ someone had been forming; flowers had even been braided into the fence.
After the photo, I turned to leave the path I had come down and when I stepped off the bridge, my heart led me to a trail that I used to travel along with my mother, but I had not traveled on as an adult. The memories of my mother and I here came flooding into my mind so much so that it escaped in the form of a tear on my left cheek: a tear of joy. As a young child, we had very little money yet my mother noticed my craving to learn and would take me to Harpers Ferry almost every weekend. At this point in my life, my mother had been well and alive, but I came to realize that perhaps I had not appreciated her efforts. Pulling myself away from the past and onto this once-trotted path, I couldn’t help but notice the elaborate alleys placed throughout the town- ones I had not noticed before this day. As I walked down one of the many, I imagined myself as a woman in the Victorian era awaiting her secret beloved.
To be quite honest, I am a romantic spirit and thus tend to romanticize just about everything from a rainy day to a secret alley. I wandered down those alleys for some time and after my imaginative thought, my feet carried me back onto the path graveled with tan pebbles. As I continued down, I came upon a rock larger than myself, lying quite flat and slab-like. It rested upon the short of the riverbank and under towering trees, yet the sunlight shined through just enough to warm the rock. In Japanese, they have a specific word for sunlight peeking through a tree’s foliage: komorebi- I learned to love this word. To continue, the area was peaceful enough that I took the liberty to lie down on the bed-like structure for no more than an hour. During this time, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to take account of the individual sounds around me: birds singing, leaves rustling, water flowing, a person laughing. After assessing my surroundings, I moved to focus my energy on my internal organs: is my heart happy, my kidney hydrated, and my belly full? These thoughts gave me great fulfillment and after some time of lying on that rock, I felt a surge of energy and rejuvenation. Before I knew it, I was off the nature-made bed and at the bottom of the once-dreaded mountain steps that lead to Jefferson Memorial Rock. To rephrase, I do not dislike the stairs and had walked up them the morning of my 21st birthday to watch the sunrise, but I never regarded them as anything other than stupid, steep stairs.
With my fresh perspective, I truly noticed the grandiosity of the mountain steps; and to be built before modern machinery- what a feat! Off the main staircase were small footpaths lined with rock and smaller staircases lining the hills, all looking to lead to what was once homes or businesses. If you are to pass both churches [one in operation and one in abandon] and continue to the grand mountainous stairs, past the Memorial Rock, you will eventually reach a smaller, narrow staircase leading to a graveyard. Thanks to my active imagination, I was able to envision the lively town in the nineteenth century and the people who formed the stairs, both the grand and the tiny, to easily navigate the hills and valleys of the land. I could see the mothers walking to the highest point of the steps to visit their deceased babes, as well as the children being forced up the grand stairs for Sunday’s mass. I could see the merchants using the footpaths to avoid the traffic of the main case, and the little alleys that led to their businesses. I spent nearly two hours walking along these likely forgotten paths and appreciating those who had made them, imagining what their life must have consisted of. As these images rushed through my mind, I felt a joy overcome me and became validated that I was on the right path.
Our final destination in the journey of life is death, hence the saying that the journey matters more than the destination. Care not how you will die or what will become of your legacy; live the present to the fullest as it is all we are guaranteed.