A Walker in the Suburbs

We were still knee-deep in the pandemic when I left the world of paid employment to “write, study and travel” — as I phrased it in the farewell note I sent to colleagues. Five years later, I wonder if I’ve lived up to that self-imposed to-do list.

Have I written? I could blog less and pen longer pieces, but I haven’t been idle. I’ve published essays, embarked on book reviewing, and written a book proposal.

Have I studied? I’m on break this year, but in late August I plan to start my final year of master’s work, culminating in a thesis. So a checkmark there, too.

Have I traveled? Never enough, but no complaints!

There was, however, a subtext to all these tasks — to shake free of the 9-to-5 shackles. I’m still working on that one, still driving myself too hard, pushing myself for no good reason except that’s what I’ve always done. This post is evidence of that!

Caring less seems a funny goal for the next five years, but maybe it’s the one to pursue!

(Packing up my office in July 2020. Still months of full-time work ahead of me, but all of it at home.)

We’re in the waning days of National Poetry Month, now celebrating its thirtieth anniversary. At the writers conference I help plan, we are devoting two panels to the genre.

I’ve been thinking about poetry lately. I think too much to write it well but when I’m under its spell my prose is closer to where I want it to be.

Why is this? I’m not sure. But maybe poetry is the written word distilled to its purest form.

What is it about a vista that appeals to us? The balance of color and texture, of breadth and height? Is it familiarity? A place that reminds us of a yard or a hillside we knew long ago?

I was thinking about this while on a walk yesterday. I took that route because of a specific vista that I knew I’d see from it. But more than halfway through my stroll, I realize I’d missed it. The view I was remembering was from a winter vantage point.

I love the green profusion we have now. It’s most welcome, especially when it’s hot outside. But with it comes a narrowing of vision, a lack of perspective. The new growth cocoons us, keeps us from harsher realities. And that’s fine with me. I’ll accept that trade.

I’m a morning person, so what I’m about to say should be taken with a grain of salt. When I woke up today, all I felt was gratitude. This is not my usual pattern. Typically, my gratitude is mixed with a goodly amount of anxiety: What needs doing? Who needs help? Where should I begin? I let to-dos dominate my earliest waking hours.

I have fantasies of rising mindfully, moving from bed to yoga mat, stretching and saluting the sun. From there to longhand writing, no keyboard. Posting can wait, emailing, too.

This is not what usually happens, of course. And it’s not what happened today, either. But what did happen was a wash of gratitude, an awareness of time passing, but also of my presence in it.

This didn’t last long. The checklist raised its hand, demanded attention. But for those first blissful moments, I was aware only that I had awoken to a new day. And that was all that mattered.

I write this post from the room that was once for dining, then for playing, and finally, given over to a much-loved doggie. It’s a room now dominated by two bookshelves and a large aviary bird cage. In the cage are two petite parakeets. (Are there any other kind of parakeets?)

They chirp merrily as morning sun floods the room with light. It is a pleasant way to begin the day and is why I once tried calling this the morning room. But that was too highfalutin a term and did not stick.

I observe the budgies. They are flitting from perch to perch, nibbling on a collard leaf, bobbing and feinting. Cleo has Hoffman coming and going. He dances to her tune. She’s the older woman, and he struggles to win her affection.

He warbles and chirps and cocks his head as if to ask, what do you think of that? Most of the time she can’t be bothered, but she provides just enough encouragement to keep him going.

Which is all to our benefit. He fills the house with song.

(A photo of Bart, one of Hoffman’s predecessors, similarly colored, though suffering from a rash at the time.)