Six Miles an Hour

Six Miles an Hour

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There’s a new speedometer in town, or at least in my neighborhood, one of those portable gizmos that’s set up to remind motorists to slow down. This one has colored lights that blink when you go more than 10 miles over the 25 miles-per-hour limit.

I walk past this speedometer every day. At first, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. Was that a number up there as I approached? A single-digit number, true, but still, a number — 6!

I wasn’t speeding, not by a long shot, but my puny pedestrian footfall was being picked up and measured. Yes, officer, I’ll slow down. I could have sworn I was only doing 5.

Truth be told, I probably did clock six miles an hour when I ran the occasional 10K road race, covering the 6.2 miles in 54 or 55 minutes. But that was long ago. Now I’m lucky to make 4 miles an hour. The machine seems to round up. It’s bad news for motorists, but good news for walkers in the suburbs.

Praying for Texas

Praying for Texas

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They sought shade and the soothing sound of moving water. It was barely raining when they fell asleep, lulled by the gurgle of the Guadalupe River. But hours later, the river would swell with torrential rainfall. It would spill its banks and claim the lowlands. It would take the lives of more than 100 campers and Hill Country residents. Days later 161 people are still missing. We are all praying for Texas.

Who hasn’t been riveted by the images coming out of Texas these last few days? The sodden t-shirts and stuffed animals that mark these historic floods as especially deadly to children. The walls of water. Cars and trucks floating in the flood.

We’ve entered a new era, a harsher and more deadly one. It’s not just Texans who need our prayers. It’s everyone threatened by floods and fires and dangerous heat — in other words, an awful lot of us.

(Placid water in Houston’s Hermann Park)

An Antidote

An Antidote

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A humid morning on the deck, fan whirring, heat still tempered by some faint remnant of nighttime cool. I watch the birds, the tiny wrens whose songs took me so long to identify because their sound was so much larger than them. The hummingbirds who have returned after an early summer hiatus. A male cardinal, his plumage bright red against the green.

How soothing it is to sit here as the birds flit and flutter in front of me. They’re an antidote to the hard times and the bad news. A way to be present in the moment.

In The Backyard Bird Chronicles, Amy Tan writes that the birds she watches heighten her “awareness that life contains ephemeral moments, which can be saved in words and images, there for pondering…”

For me, today, they do that … and more.

Every Last Sparkle

Every Last Sparkle

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There were sizzles and crackles and booms. There were shrieks and giggles and applause. It was a simpler Fourth than usual, closer to home. Not crowding on a ridge in Arlington, angling for a glimpse of the big downtown fireworks, but standing at the end of a driveway in the outer ‘burbs, as neighbors shared their Roman candles and sparklers.

But to the children in our midst it could have been the fanciest fireworks in town. They oohed and ahed, they laughed and clapped. They enjoyed every last sparkle to the fullest. They were completely in the moment, captivated by the bright lights in the darkening sky.

They’d seen the big fireworks last year, but from such a distance that it had no meaning to them. Theirs is a more immediate existence — and a more joy-filled one because of it.

Fulsome Fourth

Fulsome Fourth

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The firecracker-hot weather we’ve had (only a slight exaggeration) has cooled enough that we can enjoy the outdoors for a few hours without feeling faint. With this in mind, there may be a parade and a glimpse of fireworks. At the very least there will be kiddos and watermelon and ice cream.

The Fourth falls on a good day this year, on a blessed Friday, providing a much-needed three-day weekend to relax and recharge. For that reason, I’m thinking of it as fulsome. And it needs to be.

Sometimes it seems that patriotism is being purloined by one end of the political spectrum. On travels through the country, I’ve noticed more Ukrainian flags than Old Glories in some neighborhoods. When I think about our country, it’s a bit like the image above. There is a darkness abroad in the land; the flag is not flying as freely as it should. Which is why we need to counteract it with our words and deeds. Today, our small flag will be flying proudly.

(Concept credit for this photograph goes to Drew Cassidy. I shot it, but he framed it. Thanks, brother!)

Their World

Their World

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The parakeets have moved to a new room of the house, what I think of as the morning room. It’s full of sunshine at this time of the day and the rays are enlivening the birdies, who are flapping and fluttering around their aviary cage.

Soon they catch their breath and perch side by side, looking out the window. What do they see? Not just the grass and trees and raggedy azaleas that I glimpse. It’s a landscape pulsing with colors invisible to the human eye; they can perceive ultraviolet light, too.

Having them here, in this room and this house, is a constant reminder of the “immense world” we inhabit, a term I borrow from a book by Ed Yong. It’s a book I’ve read recently and am only mentioning in this post — I hope to explore it more fully in another.

For now, suffice it to say that the parakeets sense their own slice of reality just as we humans sense ours. Having a better idea of theirs makes mine that much richer.

In Praise of Paths

In Praise of Paths

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“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,” wrote Lord Byron in “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.” Torbjørn Ekelund might disagree. He and his pal decided to hike off-trail for three days through a wilderness area in Norway. They did not use paths, phones or maps. They were on their own in the dense, hilly Nordmarka Forest.

Though they had sussed out their route ahead of time, it was from a distance. As soon as they entered the woods, they lost the overview.

“The path is order in chaos,” Ekelund writes in his book In Praise of Paths. The title of this book provides some clue to the outcome of his experiment. The hikers stopped every ten minutes, constantly retracing their steps. They sought out high points where they could get their bearings, with little success.

Finally, at wit’s end, they climbed to the top of a rise and saw the sun sinking in the west. The sun had remained stubbornly out of sight during their wanderings. Its appearance at that moment gave them the reckoning they needed, and they were able to reach their destination.

Ekelund and his friend had walked four times as far as they needed to. “We had danced our way through the forest. One step forward, four to the left. One step forward, four to the right.”

I’ve never been much of a bushwhacker, and Ekelund’s book reminds me why.

The Weight of Air

The Weight of Air

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The heat wave has ended … or has it? The “real feel” temperature is 100 degrees today, though we will barely reach 90. It’s those old dew points, working their magic. Today’s is 70; it’s a number you can feel.

I was just out in the soup. What heft! What majesty! This air has presence. It’s an old Hollywood starlet, making an entrance; a heavyweight boxer, knocking out his opponent in the final round.

This air is weighty; it’s a force to be reckoned with. I’m reckoning with it now by writing this post inside, where the humidity is a pleasant 40 percent.

(A patch of shade promises some relief.)

Paper and Tissues

Paper and Tissues

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I still read an actual newspaper, hard-copy person that I am. And I always have tissues on hand, usually a wad of them stuffed in my purse. But I don’t always associate the newspaper with the tissues. Today I did, though.

I needed the tissues as I read about Christmas in June for a 9-year-old cancer patient who may not live until December.

And I needed them again when I read about two Idaho firefighters killed by a sniper. Who ambushes firefighters?!

These stories as well as the usual barrage: bombings, famine, ICE raids.

I’m wary of the newspaper these days. I ignore many articles and balance my reading by listening to podcasts. But sometimes the accumulated heartlessness of the world, which the newspaper so faithfully records, makes Kleenex a necessity.

Two forms of paper, neither sanctioned. I have both; I believe in both. Sometimes I wish I didn’t.

Bullfrog Morning

Bullfrog Morning

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The bullfrogs were happy this morning. They bellowed beneath bridges, sang from the banks of reedy ponds. I didn’t see them, but I could imagine their slick skin, their bulging eyes, their camouflage coloring. They might be hard to spot, but their sounds give them away.

They were celebrating the moisture and the damp, joining their voices in thanksgiving, though they may not see it that way. No doubt mating is on their minds.

I’m glad I heard them, happy their voices rose over the barking dogs and the swim meet bullhorn. It’s good to know they’re hopping and croaking. It’s good to know they’re alive.

(A bullfrog birthplace? We often see tadpoles here.)