The Possibility of “What Is”

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The Possibility of “What Is”

This post isn’t about the hypothetical “what could be.” Instead, it’s about recognizing the profound possibilities of what is. As you read, allow yourself the grace of setting aside judgment—trust me, it’ll surface— just be open to the journey.

When I was a curious child, I spent a few memorable summer days with my father at the historic Boston Courthouse. He was a high-ranking court officer at the Suffolk Superior Court, and I would eagerly tag along a couple of times a week—probably to give my mom a well-deserved break from my seemingly boundless energy and enthusiasm. While there, I’d either sit in various courtrooms listening intently to a range of interesting cases or entertain myself by skateboarding up and down the spacious hallways during lengthy trials. Sometimes, I’d get creative by folding paper helicopters and sending them gliding down the courthouse’s towering stairwells, watching them spiral elegantly in the air. Those were truly simpler and more innocent times, though one unforgettable morning stands out in my memory as a pivotal moment that ultimately changed my life forever.

A Warning Ignored

That fateful day, my father and I were running notably late. Or rather, I single-handedly made us late. He was rushing me along with increasing frustration, muttering that I wasn’t moving fast enough to his liking. In a moment of defiance, I protested loudly, shouting something quite unusual: “We can’t leave now! We absolutely need to be late!” I ranted about “smoke,” but of course, my father didn’t take my words seriously at all. In the chaos of our heated argument, I acted out just enough to delay us by a crucial five minutes.

Eventually, we made our way to the train station, enduring his stern lecture about the importance of punctuality and time management. The train took us to Park Street Station, and from there, we began the short walk to the courthouse. However, as we approached our destination, the scene before us was anything but normal. Sirens blared incessantly, and people were running in all directions as if caught in a panic, while police cars and fire trucks crowded the area like startled roosters.

When we entered through the employee entrance, my father unexpectedly ran into one of his coworkers, Joseph D. “What’s going on?” my father inquired urgently. Joseph replied gravely, his voice low: “There was a bomb explosion near the elevator banks in the new building.”

My father froze in disbelief. “When did this happen?” he asked, his voice rising with urgency.

“Just about five minutes ago,” Joseph answered, a sense of dread hanging in the air.

I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face as he slowly turned to me. It was an unsettling mix of fear and confusion. Fear that we might have unwittingly walked right into mortal danger had we been on time, and confusion at how his 11-year-old son could have possibly known something was going to happen before it actually did.

Unsettling Strength Arrives

This wasn’t the first time my parents were confronted with the unsettling idea that I was, well, different in ways that were hard to articulate. Just weeks before the chilling Court House explosion, a group of five kids suddenly jumped me after I had run what I thought was a simple errand to the corner store for my parents. 

I remember feeling an intense surge of anger after the ambush; in that moment, I walked over to the side of our brick housing project, punched a cement wall with all my might, and ended up fracturing a capstone without inflicting any harm on myself. I was just 11 years old at the time. When my parents discovered what I had done, the look of terror in their eyes was unmistakable. They took me to multiple doctors, trying to comprehend how a child could break a cement wall without sustaining any injuries in the process. 

The doctors, however, dismissed their concerns outright, suggesting my mother was overreacting and insisting that it simply couldn’t have happened as she described, even going so far as to recommend that perhaps she might benefit from some counseling herself. So now, here was my father, standing beside me in the disturbing aftermath of the courthouse explosion, grappling with the unnerving realization that his son not only possessed inexplicable strength but also seemed to have an uncanny ability to foresee events before they actually transpired.

The Venetian Veil

When we returned home from the events at the Courthouse, my father was unusually quiet, far more so than I had ever seen him before. My mother, sensing the weight of the moment, immediately asked what had happened, and after a brief, hushed, and private mumbling conversation with her, they both sat me down with an air of solemnity. My mom explained to me something I had never heard before in my young life: I had been born with a Venetian veil—a rare phenomenon sometimes believed to be associated with heightened intuition or “special” abilities that set me apart from others. It was the first—and, as it would turn out, the last—time my parents ever mentioned it to me. We never discussed the courthouse incident again, as if it were a hidden wound we all agreed not to acknowledge. Life went on, carrying its usual rhythm, but something profound and unspoken shifted that day in our relationship. I sensed their unease around me after that moment (I guess to them I was living, breathing Irish Folklore in real time), and it marked the beginning of my lifelong journey and quest into exploring internal energy, spiritual awareness, and martial arts to find out what the hell, who the hell, and where the hell I truly am.

A Life of Possibility

Looking back, that fateful day at the courthouse wasn’t just an isolated event that happened in my life; it was an incredibly pivotal moment that awakened me to the special potential that lay dormant within myself all along. Since then, I have fully embraced my “weirdness,” recognizing with clarity that what makes me different also gives me a profound sense of purpose in life. However, this journey hasn’t been easy or straightforward.

Helping to raise human consciousness often feels like walking headfirst into a massive, unyielding headwind—people either seek me out to exploit my unique gifts solely for their own benefit or dismiss them entirely. In their jealousy, they secretly hope for my downfall and demise because they cannot grasp how an “Irish kid from the projects of South Boston” could do the things I do. Recently, while engaging in the daunting task of purging old boxes in my attic as a part of my nightly duties (which involves a long story of its own), I stumbled upon a long-forgotten copy of the official report from that courthouse explosion ( see photo).

Holding that significant piece of history in my hands brought all the energy and emotions rushing back: the warnings echoing in my mind, the fear that gripped my heart, and the unfortunate distance that grew between my parents and me. It serves as a poignant reminder that the possibilities of what truly is often go far beyond what we can logically explain or comprehend. And perhaps, just maybe, that’s the point of it all.

My “Family” may not have ever truly known me, but I suppose they were still able to experience the “unique” side of the metaphysical world in real time during the time we all shared together, so in that case, I hope it helped raise their consciousness.

Brian Collins

Life in Synergy Inc.

www.lifeinsynergy.com

PS:
The funny story?

My uncle was Mayor of Boston in the 1960’s, and when he passed in 1995, his funeral was attended by numerous global dignitaries. One of the people I met there was a judge who had worked with my Father in the past. The judge looked at me and said, “Wow, you’ve grown! I remember when you used to ride your skateboard through my courtroom!”

Yup… 100% true—and we all shared a great laugh.

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