Casting off

John and I went to Piers Park in East Boston today, rubbing our hands with glee as we walked around a new area full of exploration potential. More working class and, perhaps, more interesting than places like Boston Common or Harvard Square. It was a spectacularly warm afternoon and we were headed to the harbor.

As we approached the park, ducking the planes flying close overhead, we could see an older man casting out his fishing line. Not into the sea, but into the field. Just a large, open, flat area and he's casting off with this look of gritty determination. John said that's good practice for fly fishing, so we walked on. Tooled around for a good 45 minutes. Marveled at "Noddle Island," a tribute to the many nationalities present in East Boston's history, etched in granite.

As we're making our way back to the subway, there he is. Still. Just casting off into the grassy deep. And I admit that something about that scene really resonated with me. In some ways, that's what school-related writing feels like lately. Sort of casting my line into the totally wrong place, where my hook won't catch anything. Like for all my determination, if nothing bites, maybe I'm in the wrong place. Maybe I'm completely insane and everyone around me knows it.

Or maybe I should just let go of my rod and lie down and enjoy the sun.

It's something to chew on at least.