A Walker in the Suburbs

Cataract surgery number 2 was yesterday, and I’m getting used to my new eyes, to this second sight. It’s been less than 24 hours, so the verdict is still out, but already I know a couple of things. My house needs a good scrubbing and I’d forgotten how vibrantly colored the world can be.

The scrubbing will take care of itself. Or, actually, I will take care of it. And likely I’ll post about that too, when I get around to it.

What I want to write about today is how blind one can be to gradual change. It’s hard not to take my progressively cloudier vision as a metaphor. What other crusty exoskeleton am I building simply by living my life? Am I quicker to worry? To judge? Am I less likely to roll with things?

There’s no quick fix for these accretions. But there are books to read, ideas to explore, and family and friends who will, I hope, point out the ossifications when they appear, if only by an arched eyebrow and a quickly uttered, “are you sure?” I hope these guardrails are in place for me and that I provide them for others.

And then, there are miracles like cataract surgery, this second sight, to remind me to stay loose, stay limber, to look, see, question, and learn.

Fairfax County schools started yesterday. When the girls were younger, the beginning of school marked the end of summer. Over the last week I’ve observed young families return from vacations, kiddos shoot hoops at the end of the cul-de-sac and play flashlight tag after dark, cramming in last-minute bits of fun.

As I watched, I felt in my bones that familiar dread, the pit in the stomach I had as a kid heading back to school, and later as a mom, watching one more summer end. Yes, the children would no longer be underfoot, but I mourned the lack of freedom that entailed.

But yesterday, I was feeling exempt from that dread. This is not to gloat but to celebrate. To revel in the fact that it’s still summer. Cicadas still sing from the trees. Breezes still waft through the (now-open) windows.

I feel so lucky that the beginning of school no longer signals the end of summer. In fact, the warmth often continues through September and into October. Through no meteorological sleight-of-hand, just a shift in perspective, I’ve gained two more months of my favorite season.

Speaking of waters running freely, I had a chance Friday to walk across the Key Bridge, which spans the Potomac River, connecting Georgetown with Roslyn. I was carrying about 25 pounds of books on my back, the bounty of my recent trip to the Lauinger Library.

It was hot, and I was overdressed. It was the end of a long day. But walking Key Bridge is always an adventure, and I was glad to be doing it again.

What I had forgotten — what I always forget — is that walking Key Bridge is scary, especially heading south, without the distraction of the Hilltop looming ahead.

As always on the bridge, cars are zooming toward me and waters are swirling beneath me. There is no way out but forward.

I think, in the end, that’s why I keep walking Key Bridge. It reminds me that putting one foot in front of the other is often all we can do.

(Heading north toward Georgetown on the Key Bridge)