A day for mothers, for my daughters who are mothers, and for my own mother, gone ten years this October. I can’t complain; she lived a long life. But it’s never long enough, is it?
I have so much to tell her, so many questions to ask about her family, about aging with grace, about the hereafter, starting with … does it exist?
In the old days, when women routinely wore corsages, a pink carnation signified that your mother was living and a white carnation that she had passed away. What a lovely tradition, akin to mourning crepe and black arm bands, a way to tell the world you are grieving, that you are, even if old enough to be grandmother yourself, still a motherless child.
(Alas, no carnation photos, but this pale pink rose is almost white.)
He grew up in Chicago, went to college in Pennsylvania. Opinions are divided about whether he roots for the Cubs or the White Sox. But one fact is clear: Cardinal Robert Prevost is now Pope Leo XIV, the leader of 1.2 billion Catholics around the world.
In the hours before white puffs of smoke appeared above the Vatican roof, I’d been refreshing my news feed. There was a buzz, a sense of anticipation. People were gathering in St. Peter’s Square. News seemed imminent. When it actually happened I was away from a screen, grabbing a bite of lunch before driving to an appointment.
What matters, of course, is that it did happen, what most thought never could: an American pope. It seemed miraculous enough to have a pope from Latin America. And with Pope Leo we have that too: he’s spent decades in Peru and is a naturalized citizen of that country.
An internationalist, a linguist, a builder of bridges, Pope Leo XIV also chose a name that bodes well. His immediate predecessor is known for his emphasis on Catholic social teaching in the encyclical Rerum Novarum, and on the importance of combining faith with reason, as he revitalized the teachings of St. Thomas Aquinas. (I learned these facts in my recent class; who says the liberal arts aren’t relevant?)
Now, the new pope begins the task of leading a fractious church. “Evil will not prevail,” he said in perfect Italian as he stood on the balcony and stilled the raucous crowd in the square. “We are all in the hands of God.”
(The Basilica of the Immaculate Conception sits next to the Catholic University of America, established by Pope Leo XIII.)
The rain had stopped, the library books were due, so yesterday I returned them. There are several ways to reach Georgetown from Metro, but I took the Key Bridge route. It’s the most impressive way to walk to campus, and I wasn’t disappointed.
Georgetown sits on a bluff above the Potomac, which is why it’s called The Hilltop. When you approach it from the bridge, Healy Hall looms ahead like a castle, like the National Historic Landmark that it is.
Once in the District you’ll need to walk up, either by trudging an impossibly steep street (which was under construction) or by taking the Exorcist Stairs. I chose the latter, and made quick work of it. They are creepy even at 10:30 a.m.
But as soon as I reached the top, I was transported. The campus is leafy and green. It’s finals week, and preparations are already underway for graduation. Students clustered in study rooms in the library and hung out on Healy Lawn. The morning was picture-perfect. I don’t get to campus very often. Maybe I should change that.
In honor of Brahms 192nd birthday today I just listened to a podcast about the composer. I learned that he was shy, self-conscious, and hard on himself. No wonder I love the guy.
Brahms was such a perfectionist that he spent much time, especially later in his life, hunting down and destroying the music he’d written earlier. Pieces he considered sub-par did not make the cut. Who knows how much more of his music we’d have if he hadn’t been so self-critical.
It took Brahms 20 years to write his first symphony. He kept a bust of Beethoven on his desk, just to ratchet up the pressure. The result? Some of the most sublime music this side of heaven. Turn up the volume when you listen to this piece, the finale of Brahms’ Academic Festival Overture.
(A clean-shaven Brahms. He didn’t grow a beard until his mid-40s.)
I use an ancient email provider with limited storage space. I like it this way: I’m not as pelted with ads as I would be if I used Gmail … plus I’m forced to clean out the coffers from time to time. This is one of those times, prompted by a barrage of “storage almost full” warnings. In fact, the other day, my warning color moved from yellow to red. Time to delete!
So I entered the time capsule. Because yes, my inbox is a time capsule and an emotional minefield. Not only did I find plenty of emails from my dear friend Nancy, who we lost almost a year ago, but I found plenty from the girls in various other stages of their lives. Another kind of loss, not nearly as final of course, but still a reminder of time passing.
What I’ve learned in the purge is what I’m reminded of most every day, it seems: the power of relationships. The voice of a friend on the electronic page, the consistency of connections through the years. How rich is this loam of friendship; how honored I am to run across it in digital or actual form.
(One advantage of digital clutter: it weighs less than the other kind.)
On Saturday, the Washington Writers Conference, which I help plan, was followed by the Kentucky Derby, which I never miss. The result: a harried trip around the Beltway from North Bethesda home.
This year, it was especially important to watch the race. The favorite, Journalism, was sharing the field with a horse named Publisher. As it turned out, a horse named Sovereignty won. Journalism placed and Publisher was fourteenth.
Shortly before the race came the famous command “Riders, up,” which means it’s time for jockeys to mount their steeds. What I’d been experiencing all weekend was something similar. It was, Writers, leave your house and join us for discussion and inspiration. Writers, take a deep breath and pitch your ideas to agents. Writers, find community, fellowship and lasting connections. In other words … Writers, up!
Yes, I know, May Day was yesterday, but it was also yesterday that I learned about a sweet tradition that used to accompany it. Neighbors would pick wild flowers and leave them (sometimes in decorated baskets) on their neighbor’s front porch. In some places the tradition was to shout “May basket,” then run away before the recipient saw you.
This flower exchange is akin to dancing around the Maypole or crowning a May king and queen, ancient practices that celebrate the arrival of spring. Very Thomas Hardy, if you ask me: quaffing mead and cavorting on the square of some remote Wessex village.
But not that remote, after all: a tradition enjoyed by a friend of mine, which is how I learned about it in the best and most traditional way of all, face-to-face conversation.
I spent the day before May Day preparing for a busy weekend at the writers conference I help plan, and, as it turned out, taking a long walk. The Capital Crescent Trail runs from Bethesda to Georgetown, and yesterday it was hopping with 80-degree temperatures and a feel of summer in the air.
I thought I’d take a brief stroll, but walked almost to the District line. I noticed more e-bikes on the trail (as I notice more e-bikes everywhere), which kept me on the slightly-safer cinder path beside the main trail. It was warm enough that I felt the temperature drop as I reached Little Falls Stream Valley Park.
As I ambled I thought about all the walks I’ve worked in through the years: while the girls were at cello, clarinet or voice lessons — or much earlier, when they were in preschool. I discovered many of the trails I walk now during those first early forays on the Reston Trails.
Working in a walk means making do with where you find yourself — and that can be an adventure.
Four years ago on this day, I left the world of paid employment and embarked on a new kind of life. Because the years seem to pass at the speed of light now, it hardly seems like two years since I made the leap. But in fact, it’s been twice that long.
My first instinct is to ask myself what I have to show for it. Although my newly found “wisdom of the pause” (is that what it is?) tells me that no metric is required, that to properly appreciate this stage of life one must cast aside the old ways of measure, I’ve just spent the last two hours taking inventory.
That’s right … taking inventory. I know; it’s box-checker behavior to the max, but it’s strangely satisfying. I won’t bore you with the list itself, but I will share that it’s more than 2,000 words long and reminds me why I feel busy all the time. Suffice it to say that although I’m no longer paid (much) for my services, I still produce. And that, I’m sorry to say, still makes me happy. Plainly, I have much to learn.
I wake these days in medias res, a Latin phrase I remember from my study of The Odyssey in high school. It may not yet truly be “in the middle of things” — 7 a.m. isn’t that late — but it feels that way with so much light pouring in the front windows.
Wasn’t it just weeks ago when waking at this hour felt like getting in on the ground floor of the day? Not anymore. I feel like the party’s half over by the time I open my eyes. Sunrise at 6:14 and ever earlier through the next couple of months.
And so begins the season of light. It began weeks ago, I suppose, but I was too busy to notice. Now I have time to marvel at the way it slants in the house early in the day, making shadows on the wall, splashing us with warmth and well-being.
It’s not easy to sleep late these days. But why would you want to?
