Brookline: Under the Spring Wind

On the heels of our family trip to Iceland, Jane and Jordan and I return to a Brookline in full bloom, a long and hard winter finally giving way to warm weather and sunlight. After the better part of two months either cooped indoors (extremely sick due to a series of viral infections following Jordan’s move to his new preschool) or away for work or travel, we’ve starting to settle into the familiar, if belated, patterns of spring. There are still many transitions we’re working through as a family, and the future is a scarce and hazily-known entity, but there’s a certain constancy about the season: the return of after-dinner playground runs, long strolls through our beautiful neighborhood, and making plans to be outdoors on the weekends - all the while savoring the spring wind, the heavy whiff of pollen, and the colorful display of flowering trees. And yet, the season brings new occasions as well. I continue working on the nighttime series that I started over the winter. Jordan, three years and three months old, is growing into his outsized personality. I can increasingly see portions of myself in him: despite his occasional moodiness and demandingness, he is brilliantly empathic and loving, and it’s been a joy to teach him to how to notice and care for others. And his likes and joys in life are evolving and becoming more nuanced: he is just as much the locomotion rail-fanatic he always has been, but he also expresses joy after simple things like a nice restaurant outing, a new adventure in the wilds, or a quiet evening at home, spent cuddling and talking in bed. More and more, I can see my old life emerging out of the ether of early parenthood - transformed, to be sure, but nevertheless recognizable. A vision of how I might make use of my limited time on Earth (and with Jordan) has continued to take shape; a little less blind faith is required year by year.

Our future in Brookline remains uncertain, but for now, we are here, and we continue the welcome march toward summer. On the docket are many more new experiences: a family visit to Seattle and road-trip around the Olympic Peninsula (late May), more overnight camping experiences here in the Bay State (summer), and some travel up toward New Hampshire (July). Amidst all the best-laid plans and provisions, life, as it tends to do, goes on.

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May 3, 2026: A Sunday evening stroll around the neighborhood with Jane and Jordan. Taking advantage of a calm weekend of service coverage, we grab Chinese dinner together in Brookline Village. With departure of a long, cold winter, it feels like all of the flowering trees in Boston are going off simultaneously, ignoring their usual procession and erupting into a riotous fiesta of life and colour. Crabapples, redbuds, pear, and several varieties of cherry are finally in bloom, an entire month later than the forsythias and magnolias that came at their usual appointed time. On the way home, (Jordan staying up later than usual), I continue my project on lighted windows at dusk.

May 4, 2026: Daycare pickup is where the magic happens. We goof off in a random lot in Brookline Village before hitting up the Henry Bear’s Park toy store followed by a classic neighborhood dinner at Bottega di Capri. Another playground on the stroll home - the sun setting late, the fruit trees in bloom.

May 10, 2026: Mother’s Day on the beach in Revere. Jane and I try to fly a kite while Jordan digs around with his shovel and a bucket (our small kitchen trash can). Jane winds up horizontal with Jordan climbing all over her. The one day of the year when the abuse is not only normalized, but celebrated.

The Berkshires: Hilltown Winter

Capping off an entirely too-busy month of January, Jane and I take Jordan for a three-night, end-of-week getaway to the southwestern corner of Massachusetts. We’ve spent far too little time here in Western Mass, in the hilltowns of the Berkshire Plateau, and although Jordan’s a touch too young to really enjoy winter sports, we decide to break out our snowshoes and spend a few days enjoying the mountains’ winter scenery. Unfortunately (or fortunately) for us, our weekend trip corresponds to the coldest few days that any of us have experienced during our adult lives here on the East Coast. After stocking up at groceries at the Big Y in South Lee, we hole up for a few nights at the Holiday Inn Oak ‘n Spruce Resort, a complex of hotel buildings nestled into the valley next to Beartown State Forest. We wind up spending most of our time relaxing in our two-bedroom condo, visiting the nearby activity center (where Jordan delights in exploring the arcade, watching Jane play skee-ball, and sitting in his very first movie theater, where he watches an extraordinarily Hallmark-ey Hallmark Channel movie. On Friday morning, we head north to Hilltop Orchards, where Jane buys cookies and jams at the farm store (gifts for the teachers at Jordan’s home daycare, for his final month at Ladybug). The cashier seems somewhat perplexed when I point to our toddler and ask about snowshoeing in the frigid cold. We head a hundred feet down the frozen driveway, attach our snowshoes, and climb over a snowbank onto a pristine meadow of thigh-deep powder. Jordan begins to get the hang of his shoes, but decides it would be more fun to lie down and make “popsicles” in the snow. We spend the rest of the day lounging around the hotel; in the afternoon, I tend to emails and one final momentous videocall to submit the fellowship program application for Dana-Farber.

On Saturday, the mercury continues to drop as we head toward subzero temperatures for the rest of the weekend. Jane and Jordan elect to stay in, while I lug the snowshoes down the driveway and enter the forest adjacent to our resort. It’s utterly frigid, but I’m well bundled up, and it’s hard work breaking the trail in my aluminum shoes. With the wind gusting and blowing down trails of snow throughout the forest around me, I enjoy making compositions all along the path. In the afternoon, as Jane attempts again (and fails again) to get Jordan to take his nap, I dig out the car and go on a driving tour of the nearby hilltowns, first stopping in West Stockbridge to patronize Shaker Mill Books and photograph an extremely icy Main Street. I next head south to Great Barrington, passing by sweeping views of the nearby mountain ranges; parking in town proves to be far too crowded to stop, so I head back to Stockbridge for a final bit of photography around the village and its snow-covered green. I return home after buying a trip magnet, an orange mocha, and a box of chocolate truffles for Jane at Love, Peace, & Chocolate. After a final relaxing night in our condo, we make the long drive back east to Boston in the throes of a polar vortex. All in all, a brief but memorable weekend.

Brookline: Marcescence

Marcescence (n., of a plant part): The quality of withering but remaining attached in the winter; a biological trait believed to be adaptive or protective in certain deciduous tree species such as beech or oak

January finds us in the depths of the winter now - one of the coldest, darkest ones we have had in our time in New England. The mercury has largely dived below freezing for the past several weeks, and the early nights have had me alternating between feelings of cozy and stir-crazy. On the holiday weekend of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, a snowstorm blows into town after Jordan’s Saturday morning dance lesson and bookstore sing-along/library/pizza run. We spend Sunday largely cooped up at home, enjoying the weather from the comfort of the windowsill. Jordan and I cuddle on the bed and play “sneak-a-peek” (I Spy) through the window, although he has largely taken to telling me what he wants me to sneak-a-peek at (which I must then, in turn, tell him to look for, which of course he will promptly spot). From his bedroom window, we spot the family of rock doves on our balcony; three blue recycling bins; two red cars; the distant lights of the BWH helipad. From my window: a Christmas tree in a blue house; a squirrel’s nest; a weathervane. I make Syracuse salt potatoes, and we have all manner of snacks after Jane makes a grocery run. On Monday morning, I draw the curtains to find a glowing white world of snow, freshly fallen overnight. Close as we live to the Longwood Medical Area, it’s a rarity for the stuff to remain unplowed and untrammeled for long. I get the photography bug for the first time in weeks, and head out on a long walk with camera and my winter gear, accompanied by Jane and Jordan for the first few blocks.

It’s been years since I engaged in proper winter photography - not since before Jordan was born, I believe. Even up here in coastal Massachusetts, snowfall is becoming rarer and rarer, and it’s still not usual for me to be free the day after a storm. When we moved from Baltimore up to Boston, I had a dream that I would really invest myself in New England, documenting all its seasons, and seeking out its soul by understanding its nature, its landscape, and its people. Some of that dream has panned out - mostly in spring and autumn forays - while much of it has fallen to the wayside amidst “real” life, parenthood, etc. Winter remains largely a time for hibernation and recuperation, rather than for creativity or inspiration. Still, what I’m experiencing is not just a seasonal lull or rut. I find myself in a strange position, much like the marcescent oak leaves that cling stubbornly to trees laden with snow this morning along the Emerald Necklace: withering as an adaptation; stuck in place but not truly attached; am I part of a cohesive whole? Am I doing something valuable even if I wouldn’t say I’m thriving? These type of questions pop into my head, naturally, when I’m out and about and alone, in the urban woods, looking outward and inward with my camera and my thoughts. I make my way through the snow, down to Olmsted Park and to the edge of Wards Pond - an old running route. I crouch down on the forest floor to get an angle, my breath condensing upon my eyelashes and my viewfinder. The sun comes out halfway through my walk, and blue skies and clearing storm light pierce through the white woodlands. I take some lovely backlit compositions on my way back north. I think I spot the swan family from last summer - the adolescents all grown up and bearing white plumage - swimming along the shore of Leverett Pond.

Six winters here, and this is the first time I’ve photographed this stretch of the Emerald Necklace in complete winter condition. It still feels odd to me that after so much time, I don’t feel nearly as attached to this place - the birthplace and home of my only child - as I felt to Baltimore. Jane reasons that Baltimore was different; we were in our twenties; it was a formative time in our lives; we were making a home and doing everything for the first time. Maybe so. I still feel like there’s something pheromonic about place, just as there is about emotional attraction and love. Some type of spontaneous chemical interaction between sense, emotion, and memory. When a place resonates with you, it’s not just visually captivating. It smells right. The air feels right. The sights and sounds and human community become part of a bigger fabric, and that fabric becomes a definition, a sense of grounding, a sense of home. Years later - I’m still looking for it. I’m in no hurry to leave this place, but there’s been - always has been - a perpetual feeling of moving on. If we ever leave Brookline behind, I wonder how sentimental I’ll be about it. For now, I hang on, doing what I can, seeing the world as I may, and carefully observing the passage of time.