Back when I was running, one of my favorite treats was to drive downtown, park in Little Italy, and run along the Inner Harbor. The city has developed a pedestrian promenade that goes for about six miles past condos, skyscrapers, old historic ships, and marinas full of yachts. There is an outer harbor, full of massive commercial ships, cranes and dry docks, but the modern Inner Harbor is scaled now more to humans than ocean vessels, and enjoyment more than commerce.
November wouldn’t be my choice time to walk along the Inner Harbor, but we have a guest from Scotland visiting. Fiona has known my wife since just after college and she is here to experience her first American Thanksgiving. She is a fellow runner like me, so she and I have often gone downtown to run along the water when she was visiting in the summer.
Arthritis and a meniscus tear ended my running career over a year ago, so we are only walking today. Fiona and I headed downtown Thanksgiving morning, unencumbered by the usual rush-hour traffic, with the intent of a two-hour walk that will still get me home in time to wrestle the turkey into the oven.
The temperature was below freezing, unusually cold for November, and we were bundled up. We parked in Little Italy, as usual, and headed three blocks south toward the waterfront. The wind was bitter as it channeled between buildings, but it dissipated as we reached the water, greeted by the rising sun.
Harbor is an intriguing word. It implies shelter and protection and safety, from wind and wave, storm and sea. This particular harbor is far from the sea, separated by the mighty Chesapeake Bay. The outer harbor welcomes seafarers from all over the world, seeking temporary footing on soil after months at sea. A local Episcopal ministry provides cell phones to call home and van rides to Walmart. The Inner Harbor greets tourists from all over the world, bringing their curiosity and cash to spend on boat tours, museums, the aquarium and maybe a baseball game.
Today, Fiona and I are just walking. Treading on brick and boardwalk, passing boat after boat shrink-wrapped in white plastic for the winter. An occasional runner passes by, stirring up my envy, challenging me to be grateful that my knee is at least allowing me to walk instead. In that moment of comparison, I could choose to harbor resentment, something I have honed over the years to a level of expertise. But there are some thing best left to float off, captured by currents that sweep away detritus and scour the surface of the shore.
Harboring can be both good and bad. Resentment was, for years, a personal attribute that fueled discord and destructive behaviors, like an iceberg floating just below the surface, lurking to disrupt. For me, it was fuel for addiction. Although gratitude has also been a constant companion, for too many years it was often muscled out by resentment. Thanks to the gift of recovery, my gratitude has grown stronger and is now quick (most of the time) to send resentment to the time-out corner.
Harboring gratitude is much more fruitful and life-giving than harboring resentment. It’s the difference between slips full of schooners or dry docks full of scows.
As we finish our two-hour walk, we have focused on the good—the variety of vistas, the gift of the promenade, the gratitude of ability—rather than the constraints of the cold. It is Thanksgiving Day after all. Shouldn’t every day be?
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