Madonna of the Towpath

Nov. 4, 2008 — The fifth anniversary of my move from New Jersey to Arizona is fast approaching. I love Arizona for a growing list of reasons. It is one of the most beautiful and varied places to live I’ve ever imagined. The sheer geological drama never ceases to surprise and delight me, from my daily enjoyment of the McDowell Mountains in which I live, to the red rocks of Sedona, to the Grand Canyon (where we spent a recent long weekend with friends), to the live caves of Karchner Caverns, to Canyon de Chelly, to our favorite hotel of all time, La Posada in Winslow, the architect Mary Coulter’s masterpiece that has been resurrected from historical oblivion. And I take great pleasure in knowing there are many more sights to behold, because I’ve made relatively small incursions across the state so far.

But, today I am back in Princeton, a well-preserved 17th-century stopover on my way to the WorldatWork office in Washington, DC. It is Halloween, and I spotted my first witch well before dawn. Earlier this week there was snow, but the sugar maples are still aflame, echoed by the reddish-orange glow from the many rows of burning bushes around town. And I realize with a jolt of emotional recognition that I am home in a deeply soul-satisfying way that can’t be explained or replaced.

At the first rays of sunlight, I nosed the car into the tiny, river stone-walled parking lot in Kingston that abuts the Delaware-Raritan Canal, which was built (mostly by Irish immigrants like my own ancestors) more than 150 years ago to enable the transport of cargo between New York City and Philadelphia by connecting the Raritan and Delaware Rivers. One of the few surviving locks and canal master’s houses is in the tiny hamlet of Kingston, just north of Princeton. It is a historic site, both officially and ascetically. Nothing ever changes here. George Washington and his bedraggled troops marched over this very stone bridge on their way to the Battles of Princeton and Trenton, centuries before the ancient path was paved. I once lived in a house very close by, overlooking Carnegie Lake, which the canal’s towpath follows to its end and then continues on toward Trenton. I have run and walked this stretch of the towpath for a quarter of a century, in all seasons and through good times and bad. I return to it every time I am on a business trip that brings me nearby. Today, I woke up early, with a sense of urgent mission, knowing I needed to visit the Madonna of the Towpath. This is a very tumultuous time, we are on the cusp of a new Presidential and Congressional regime, radical change is in the air, and my finances and nerves are under relentless siege. It’s been years since my last pilgrimage, but the Madonna has never let me down when I am in need of solace, courage, strength and vision.

There used to be two white stone Madonnas in the stone grotto that is visible from the towpath about 10 to 15 minutes from the Kingston Bridge, depending on whether you are walking or running. One inexplicably disappeared many years ago, repurposed, I’ve always assumed, by the priests at St. Joseph’s Seminary across the way, which must have provided this impromptu shrine in the first place. Once upon a time, I used to run the entire length of the towpath from Kingston to the Washington Street Bridge and sometimes beyond, but when I was just starting to run, the Madonnas were an important benchmark; because that was all the farther I could go before running out of steam. I developed the habit of invoking the Madonnas’ assistance with strength and the fortitude to go on. Over time, this evolved into a ritual where I would stop to ask for their guidance in other matters of the mind or heart.

I haven’t thought about the Madonna in a long time, but it is comforting to see she is still there, and listening to me as intently as ever, like a close friend after a long absence. The sun is brilliant today, even warm at my back, beautiful the way the sun filters the light through the red and yellow leaves, creating sparkles on the water in the canal. Like the best of spiritual guides, she provides me no direct answers, but I head on my way south aware that I am full of good fortune simply because I can return to this magical place. I can still walk and run and breathe in the distinctive late October scent of decomposing leaves on the towpath, mixed with the slightly acrid smell of algae on the canal, with just a whiff of wild mint

The opinions expressed are solely those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of WorldatWork and its affiliate, Alliance for Work-Life Progress (AWLP).