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Author: Anne Cassidy

Saturday Morning

Saturday Morning

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It’s cool and crisp today;. The witch hazel and the weeping cherry are starting to turn, but most trees are green, and pools of shade and light still dot the lawn. 

Along the fence row, the ornamental grasses have settled in, grown up and out. They catch the light, their tassels gleaming. And the ferns, replenished by rain, are verdant again.

In between feeding runs, a hummingbird perches on the slim twig of the climbing rose, which bends slightly with its tiny weight. 

I have the feeling I often have when struck by natural beauty — that I’d like to hold it, inhale or imbibe it, anything to keep it here. 

Yard Signs

Yard Signs

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It seemed to start with the pandemic, with the chalk art and the concerts on balconies, the way we felt during those first few weeks of the ordeal when we thought our sheltering time would be more like a long blizzard than a new way of life. 

Pundits ponder how many of the changes we’ve made over the last 18 months will become permanent fixtures. Let me add one to the mix: the proliferation of yard signs. 

Before the pandemic I don’t remember seeing many that weren’t advertising a house for sale or a renovation taking place. Politics are too hot right now for people to use yard signs to advertise their candidate of choice — at least in my neighborhood. 

Now there are signs welcoming kindergartners and high-schoolers, banners for birthdays and even notices with desperate requests. The latter includes one from a family in the neighborhood that used the back of their PTO’s grade school welcome sign to scrawl their own heartfelt message: Open The Schools!

At least that one is down now, but I think people are catching on to the potential of yard notices in an era when more of us are at home and walking around. 

Yard signs … bring ’em on. 

Autumn Amble

Autumn Amble

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The warm and weighty air we’ve enjoyed lately has camouflaged what’s been going on close to the ground, where low branches have been thinning and yellowing. Where crimson and yellow leaves have mixed in with the green.  

 It was if the scenery had been clued into the equinox, which in a way it had, I suppose. A woods that looked summery just a few days ago seemed to morph overnight into an autumnal landscape. 

I noticed this yesterday on my post-farmers-market stroll, a lovely routine that my newly freed up work status has allowed me to enjoy. The woods near there has a blend of trees and enough underbrush that turns early in the season to burnish the place with gold, to stamp it with the season. 

But up above, there is still plenty of green. Time for many more autumn ambles. 

The Birds

The Birds

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They swooped, they swerved, they filled the sky with their acrobatics. I first spotted them as I was stopped in traffic on Key Bridge, but could only snap a faraway shot. 

It was later, once I’d reached the Car Barn Building terrace, that I saw the birds again. I’d stopped to look at the river and the towers of Rosslyn across into Virginia (how cool that I leave my state for class) — and there they were, circling and swirling, making their presence known. 

Were they up to no good? It was hard to tell at the time. But when I looked at the (top) photo later … well,  you be the judge …

The Power of Scent

The Power of Scent

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Yesterday, on my way back from a walk, I caught a whiff of manure from a passing truck. Turns out, the truck was turning into my neighbors’ driveway where for a couple of hours the lawn was aerated and fertilized.

As a result, I spent the day inhaling whiffs of the barnyard, a scent I associate more with the farm than the suburb. 

It wasn’t unpleasant, not after I got used to it. In fact, it made me think of afternoons spent interviewing farmers in Cambodia or Malawi or other places around the world, places where roosters crowed and pigs wallowed and shy children peeked at me from behind the leaves of a banana tree.

I miss those trips, the golden sunrises, the purple twilights, but I’m grateful that yesterday, for a few hours, a whiff of the barnyard brought them back to me. 

The Art of Listening

The Art of Listening

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I read in this week’s Brain Pickings newsletter that the composer Aaron Copland, in his book Music and Imagination, says listening to music is an art, just as playing it is. 

If that’s the case, then I practice the art every time I walk. 

This morning, fresh from reading about Copland, the “Overture to Die Meistersinger” in my ears, I thought about how I listen. It’s mostly with the ear of an amateur, someone whose love for music greatly exceeds her knowledge of it. 

But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it; perhaps I enjoy it more. 

“There are few pleasures in art greater than the secure sense that one
can recognize beauty when one comes upon it… ” Copland writes. “Recognizing the beautiful
in an abstract art like music partakes somewhat of a minor miracle.”

Summer Tasks

Summer Tasks

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Here it still feels like full-on summer, but with autumn officially beginning next week there’s more urgency to complete the tasks of summer — everything from weeding the garden to bathing the dog, a task that may happen later today, depending upon energy levels of both dog and humans.

Perhaps I should say tasks made easier by summer in the latter case, actions more easily performed outside that in, like the sudsing up and rinsing off of a sometimes cantankerous canine, or the cleaning of a feather- and seed-layered birdcage.

On the other hand, it’s also nice to read, write and think outside, to look and listen and remember, storing up the cricket sounds and bird calls for a leaner, bleaker season. Those activities should not — and will not — be forgotten. 

Culling

Culling

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Next to writing, walking and reading, decluttering has been high on my list of things to do since April 30. 

Let’s just say I didn’t exactly rush to begin what I’m sure will be a years-long and often excruciating exercise. 

Should I save all the Amazon Advantage order slips from when I was still packing off copies of my book to the behemoth every few weeks? That’s an easy one. Into the recycling bin with them.

I have also been known to save more than my share of articles ripped from daily newspapers. These range from obituaries of noteworthy individuals to reviews of interesting books, even if they were published in 2006. 

Far harder are the article folders. I kept one for every story I wrote as a freelancer. To banish every set of interview notes would be too much, so I’m tip-toeing into closure by culling the folders to the barest minimum. 

Probably the whole folder needs to go, but for now, I’m excited that this decluttering exercise emptied out more than half of a file drawer. 

Baby steps …

Wednesday Market

Wednesday Market

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I remembered just in time yesterday, remembered that it was Wednesday and the farmer’s market was happening in my church parking lot. The church doesn’t sponsor the market, just offers it a place to be. But having it there gives it a welcome familiarity.

As the summer has deepened, the produce offerings have expanded — and so has the carnival aspect of the event. Yesterday the parking lot was so full that I thought for a moment a service must be going on. But it wasn’t a service, just a lot of vegetable-lovers — and more. 

This market includes bakery booths and a barbecue place, organic meats and micro-greens. A steel drum player gives it a Caribbean beat. As I squeezed tomatoes and peaches, I spotted a fleet of cyclists moving effortlessly down the road. For a moment it felt like summer would never end. 

Gray Matter

Gray Matter

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As my old gray matter stirs slowly to life, I look up and find that it’s almost 2 p.m. and I’ve yet to write a post. Instead, I’ve been answering a discussion question for my class and figuring out the topic of my first paper. 

Yes, I write all the time, but not academic papers. I’ve spent most of my adult life penning articles for commercial establishments — magazines, newspapers, nonprofits. Writing for the academy is different, I tell myself. 

But maybe not all that much. Maybe I’m making it too big a deal (I’ve been known to do that). Maybe all I need to do is what I’ve always done: research, analyze and write. Just share what I learn, and in this case, what I believe. 

(Gray stone, gray matter, Georgetown’s Healey Hall)