On the Run

On the Run

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Yesterday I had a conversation with a professor that began with mulch. The topics were thesis requirements and process; that it started with mulch says something about the season and the suburbs.

Every year this time I notice the bags piled neatly waiting to be spread. They speak of industry, of the gardener’s hope that this year she will prevail over weeds.

And then… the gardener weeds the garden before spreading the mulch. What does she find? Wild onions, wild strawberry vines, a weed with a tall stem and shaggy “leaves” that spreads its seeds throughout the yard whenever it’s touched.

Most ugly of all is the sticker vine, or at least that’s what I call it. It’s a tenacious creature that doesn’t want to give up its privileged place near the garden fence, has already began climbing it, asserting dominance. It took all my strength to pull that one from the ground.

Most of the mulch is still in bags. But at least the weeds are on the run.

(In July the garden will already be shaggy, but traces of mulch are still visible.)

Another Chance

Another Chance

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Yesterday I was shocked to learn not just of the firings at Health and Human Services — we had been expecting them — but of how they were executed. Whole departments eliminated. Civil servants waiting in line for hours only to learn as they reached the door that they had been let go. This is more than a “reduction in force.” This is intimidation. This is meanness and cruelty.

I woke up this morning thinking of the institutional knowledge that is being lost, of the kind of country we’re creating with these careless and corrosive decisions. What do I do with this angst and anger? I could protest, of course — and I may. But would it help? The people who can make a difference stand silent and impotent.

It’s not yet light outside, but I hear the first birds singing. I learned recently from Amy Tan’s The Backyard Bird Chronicles that 75 percent of songbirds die before they’re a year old. They starve or fall prey to a hungry hawk. But the ones who survive wake up singing. “Each day is a chance to survive,” Tan writes.

I look out the window. It’s still too dark to see the birds, but I can hear them. I know they’re perching in the trees, waiting for the light. For them, today is another chance to survive. And for us, too.

(A mountain bluebird in southern Colorado, 2019)

Pink Petals Flying

Pink Petals Flying

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Resistance is futile. When D.C.’s Tidal Basin cherry blossoms are in peak bloom, I want to see them. So I trundled downtown yesterday on Metro and caught the seasonal display, slightly less robust than usual due to seawall construction.

What always strikes me on these pilgrimages is not the flowers but the people. I heard dozens of languages, dodged scores of photographers, reminded myself over and over again, it’s the journey not the destination.

Summery temperatures are making quick work of the fragile flowers this year. Thunderstorms moved in last night; the wind was already picking up when I was there. I tried to snap a shot of the pink petals flying, but they proved elusive. If you look closely at the photo above, though, you’ll see them. No fooling!

Warm Dawn Air

Warm Dawn Air

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An early walk in the gloaming, porch lights shining. Some white, some yellow. A globe bulb on a lamppost. Fixtures as varied as the people who chose them.

There are no streetlights here, so nighttime illumination is to order, unless it’s inherited from previous residents. Coach lights flank garage doors. Solar-powered strips mark driveways and garden paths. Doorways flaunt the brightest bulbs. Here we are, world, they seem to say, enter here.

And then there is window light, scarce in the morning hour, but I saw a few examples on my stroll, especially in one house, the only one for sale in the neighborhood. It was almost certainly left on in error during yesterday’s open house. It spoke not of habitation but of vacancy, preternaturally bright.

To drive the road is to miss these particulars. To walk is to imbibe them, like so much warm dawn air.

(Streetlights in Chicago, 2016)

Remembering Lockdown

Remembering Lockdown

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Five years ago we were two weeks into lockdown. Checking this blog to see what was on my mind I see that I wrote about the joy of finding toilet paper at the supermarket.

It’s good to be reminded of that time, good to remember how upended our world was. Though it feels upended now — and it is, in deeper and more important ways — the pandemic shredded our routines and shuttered our souls. Most everyone who could work remotely was working remotely, and in Virginia we could venture out of our houses only for essentials.

There was no NCAA Basketball Tournament, no baseball season openers, no concerts or movies. More importantly, there were no impromptu gatherings, no hugging of friends if you saw them at the store.

We tried to make the best of it, but it was a frightening, humbling time. We came through it, chastened and changed, and we will come through this time, too. I’m not sure when or how, but we will.

Coffee Table Books

Coffee Table Books

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I write this post with my feet propped up on our coffee table. I’m not usually so boorish, but this busy morning it seemed the best way to achieve the proper angle of laptop to wrists.

The coffee table on which my feet are propped is notably bare. We’ve had visitors and have tidied up in their honor. But I like the look of the polished wood so much that I may try to keep it this way: just one book and a few magazines. Often, it’s strewn with piles of printed material, which the kiddos love to slide and tear (see above).

One of my favorite (of many!) “Seinfeld” episodes features a coffee table book that becomes a coffee table. It has little legs that unfold and hold it upright. This post will not do that, creature of the ether that it is. But it will praise this humble living room surface and the items that rest upon it. In my case, often too many, but fewer moving forward, I hope.

Cool Spring

Cool Spring

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It’s one of those days that looks like spring but feels like winter. The Bradford pears are blooming, their white arms shivering in the breeze.

Hyacinths hesitate, wondering if it’s warm enough to venture above the soil.

The daffodils and cherry trees have made their decisions. They’ll brave the temps .. and last longer because of them.

Contemplating Discovery

Contemplating Discovery

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Late last week I met friends at the Udvar Hazy Museum, which is part of the Smithsonian’s Air and Space complex. Built in the shadow of Dulles International Airport, this structure walks, talks, eats, sleeps and dreams aircraft.

There you can see the Apollo 11 command module, Amelia Earhart’s Lockheed Vega, and the 1903 Wright Brother’s flyer, which covered 852 feet in 59 seconds.

But to me the most impressive object on display is the space shuttle Discovery. It’s a hulking behemoth of a spacecraft, battered and brave. I found it strangely moving: its hoary hull and missing tiles. It wears its adventures and its miles — all 150 million of them — with dignity.

When I looked at it I thought of the optimism, even the naiveté, required for space travel. Although Discovery was retired only 14 years ago, it already seems a relic, the embodiment of an earlier, more optimistic chapter of our nation’s history.

(Photo: Wikipedia, courtesy NASA)

Up And At ‘Em

Up And At ‘Em

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Many nights I wake in the wee hours. Usually I read myself back to sleep. Last night was not one of those times. I had a burst of creative energy. I got out of bed and walked down the hall to my desk. I started writing.

I appreciate inspiration and am glad to go where it leads, even if it’s leading me at an hour when I’d rather be asleep.

So I followed the muse, brewed the tea, coaxed the words. And now … I’m falling asleep sitting up.

There’s only one way to deal with mornings like this: Keep moving. Which is exactly what I plan to do.

Bach to Basics

Bach to Basics

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It was only a few measures snatched from the radio but I’ve been humming them since Wednesday: the opening phrases of Bach’s English Suite Number 5. Who knows why a melody lodges itself in your mind, but this one made itself at home in mine.

Usually I’ll forget a piece in a few days — or, if it’s persistent and for the piano, find the music and play it. This time, miraculously enough, I already owned it. I pulled it out yesterday and started practicing.

To learn a piece from scratch is to probe the heart of it, to marvel at the intricacies of meter and harmony, the contrapuntal wonder of it all. I did that yesterday with Bach … only remembering this morning that March 21st is his birthday.

I can’t think of a more fitting reminder of his genius than to try and play one of his piano works, taking it apart and putting it back together again.

Happy Birthday, Johann Sebastian Bach! Your suite is humbling me.