Miracle of Movement

Miracle of Movement

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Yesterday I walked on the way to the grocery store — didn’t walk to the store, of course; that’s not done in the suburbs. But I have a route I work in on the way to food shop. So I pulled into the parking lot that’s usually empty and found it … full. I’d forgotten that pools are open now, and this lot serves one, a community pool we used years ago, when the girls were younger.

At the end of our several-year membership there, I was the only one who used it. I would slip out after supper and swim laps. It was divine. Yesterday, though, I could only listen to the sound of splashing, the thunk of kiddie cannonballs.

Think of all the sun exposure you’re avoiding, I tried telling myself. It didn’t work. I wanted to be slicing through the cool water doing the crawl or breast stroke.

But I kept moving and the walking worked its magic. I had the pavement and the blue skies and Beethoven in my ears. I had the miracle of movement, which eases the mind and tires the body. I had/have so much. And when I’m walking, I remember it.

Written By Hand

Written By Hand

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Of one thing you can be certain: Walker in the Suburb posts are completely human-written. No AI here. No LLM either, an abbreviation I knew only as a master of laws degree until I recently learned that it also stands for large language model.

Not that I needed convincing, but a recent Washington Post op-ed makes a good case for writing without bot assistance — in fact, for writing without any technological help at all, including the keyboard I’m using to compose this post. A study at MIT shows the benefit of putting pen to paper, of writing by hand.

When I was learning to write, there was no other way. It was the stubby pencil on wide-ruled paper, a dotted line showing us where to line up our ascenders and descenders. I still grasp a pen the way I did those pencils, more ham-fisted than I would like but still workable after all these years.

How fortunate I was to have learned the old-fashioned way, my children too, though they lacked a bit in the penmanship department. But still, they were well ahead of AI. My grandchildren are not so lucky.

I can still remember the pit in my stomach when I opened a blue book in college, knowing that I had 90 minutes to write a cogent essay about English history from 1066 to 1603, the Norman Conquest to the death of Queen Elizabeth. That meant an hour and a half to assemble the evidence, summarize my thoughts, and prove my points … all in longhand.

Somehow, I did it. We all did — and our synapses were humming as a result.

Brains are quieter these days, just like neighborhoods. I do what I can. Now it’s time to write in my journal … by hand.

(A fragment of Homer’s Iliad, handwritten on papyrus, 4th century A.D. Photographed at the Morgan Library.)

Flip-Flop

Flip-Flop

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The sound of summer walking is a slap and a dash, a flip and a flop. It’s the sound of sandals hitting pavement, of rubber soles and seasoned toes, of an extra beat when the shoe hits the foot after it hits the road, as if it’s talking back— which in a way it is. It’s screaming “summer”!

The flip-flop is the footwear of the season, especially to and from the beach and pool. Its only anchor is the thong that passes between the big and second toe, which takes some getting used to every summer, some toughening up. But once the callus forms, the flip-flop seems to become part of the foot, a no-nonsense auxiliary, the least amount of sole you can have between foot and ground.

In some countries, flip-flops seem to be the only footwear. No laces to tie, no Velcro to attach. The toe thong does the trick. But for those of us who live in more northern climes, the flip-flop is reserved for summer, and for that reason, at least for me, associated with freedom.

The flip-flop is the soul of simplicity, the footwear equivalent of the screen door. Pair the two for summer bliss.

Longest Days

Longest Days

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Solstice arrived yesterday in the wee hours, but I slept through the meteorological moment. Today I woke at early light and was walking before my eyes were fully open.

At winter solstice we rejoice because days grow longer. At summer solstice it’s better to forget how quickly it will be winter solstice again. Instead, to remember how many long days we still have. Summer twilights linger. Summer dawns, too.

The season is just coming into its own. We have more day lily buds than day lilies.

There are the longest days. I plan to savor them.

Juneteenth

Juneteenth

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The grandchildren have departed, leaving behind a ball, barrette and undies. That’s nothing compared with some of the things that we’ve found as soon as the vans leave the driveway: bottles and diapers and pacifiers. Special cups that must be retrieved before the next school day. Much-loved blankies.

Today’s get-together fell into place organically. It’s not only June but Juneteenth, which means days off for our brood. The group lunch wasn’t planned but seemed to make sense. Babies tag-napped upstairs, the teenager worked the trampoline so the littlest ones weren’t hurt, and the adults had a few minutes to chat among themselves.

I write after watching the U.S. beat Australia 2-0 and a guaranteed advance to the next round of the World Cup. A steady breeze makes for pleasant company, as leaves wag in the wind and a lovely day morphs into evening.

(Above: another perfect June day, this one last year in Groton, Massachusetts.)

The Nod

The Nod

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Walkers are busy. They have paths to travel, woods to explore, miles to rack up. Which means that most of the time (unless there’s a fox on a rock in the stream) they don’t have time to stop and chat, or even the breath to say hello. Maybe this is why they’ve perfected the nod.

Sometimes it’s just a dip of the chin. Other times the whole head may be involved, and a smile may peek out. Occasionally, I’ll get a wave, thumbs up or peace sign.

I appreciate the nonverbal communication of walkers on the trail. It’s an acknowledgement that another human is passing by — proof that, although many of us walk solo because we relish the time alone, we realize that others are doing the same. And in that case, it’s best not to disturb but to just … give a nod.

A Firefly Farewell

A Firefly Farewell

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Our guest from Paris leaves tonight. During his stay he’s seen deer, squirrels, chipmunks, cardinals, jays, bluebirds, hummingbirds and the hawk I wrote about yesterday. Only the fox has been elusive.

But last night, as we dined on the deck, came the final performance. Deep in the summer grass, the fireflies emerged, blinking their messages of love and longing.

“Here I am,” they said, as they flitted through their mating dance. “Over here.” Slowly moving up from ground to sky, the bugs flashed in the darkness. Their pinpoints of light made the backyard seem a fairyland.

I doubt we’ll convince this Parisian that it’s better to live in the suburbs. He’s ridden into the city on Metro enough to know the length and the hassle of the ride. But I hope we’ve represented ourselves well. It’s not the only way to live — a fact that is painfully obvious to me every time we travel — but it has its pleasures.

(No firefly photos, I’m afraid. This is a shot of the Mekong River in Cambodia from a work trip in 2019.)

Like a Hawk

Like a Hawk

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The hawk looks contemplative here, as if he’s pondering the world and his place in it. But in truth he’s looking for dinner. He’s watching his prey … like a hawk.

He showed up several times last night as we supped on the deck, making me wonder for a moment if he was sizing us up, too, but realized we were too big and tough.

The raptor was here a couple of nights ago, also, perching on the deck railing and on top of the rain gauge, as he does here. I imagine he’s keeping his eye on the bird feeder. There’s a resident chipmunk this summer, too — or at least there was.

Whenever I see hawks now, I think of the close encounter I had with one a couple of years ago, how the parakeets barely escaped his talons, how they might have perished had I not been there. The parakeets stay inside now. The world is too wild for them.

But not too wild for me. How privileged we were last evening to spend long minutes gazing at this guy.

Practically Perfect

Practically Perfect

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I had another post idea for today, but I hadn’t finished it before I left for an early morning appointment. Now back home, I have a different idea, a riff on this mid-June, almost mid-summer, practically-perfect-in-every-way day.

Start with the 75-degree temperature, the ample sunlight and the breeze, which is just enough to stir the poplar leaves. Add in the smell of grass from a new-mown lawn and the song of wrens and robins.

Since I was out early, I worked in a walk-and-talk with a friend and her sweet doggie. We ended with chai lattes at a neighborhood cafe.

Practically perfect or completely so? Now that I think of it, maybe the latter.

A Word on Walkability

A Word on Walkability

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As my thesis year approaches, I find myself thinking about sense of place, my thesis topic. It’s an interest in place that inspired this blog and continues to generate material — not only from walking through the suburbs but from reflecting on them, too.

The last two weeks we’ve been hosting a visitor from Paris, someone used to walking in a city, running errands on foot, relying chiefly on public transportation. He enjoys the green abundance of our corner of the world and appreciates our space, but he misses the walkability to which he’s accustomed.

In another, similar, vein, I recently lunched with a young acquaintance who decided to stay put in a condo rather than buy a house because she loves living in a walkable community. She would rather have less space and more mobility. My oldest daughter and her family have made a similar decision.

I see in this the small but important vanguard of a movement to value more than just space: to appreciate density and walkability — and be willing to sacrifice for them, too.