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Author: Anne Cassidy

Going in Circles

Going in Circles

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Happy is the house that allows circumnavigation — by which I mean, happy is the house that allows you to walk in circles through the rooms, 

Our house has an open living room, a center hall that leads into an office (dining room in a former life), which opens onto the kitchen, which flows into the living room. Put these features together and you have a perfect venue for … going in circles. 

This might seem unimportant, and I didn’t think about it when we were buying, but once the girls were toddlers, they loved running loop-the-loops, chasing the cat or evading a parent. Copper uses this configuration for his victory laps. It also comes in handy when you need to pace.

In short, circumnavigation is a nice feature to have in a house. It provides an openness and flexibility that is sorely lacking in many aspects of life. And though I have only anecdotal research to back me up, it may even keep one limber. It’s not a feature I would have put at the top of my list when choosing a house, but now that I have it, I can’t imagine one without it. 

The Pipeline Path

The Pipeline Path

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I wouldn’t want to live next to it, but the oil pipeline a couple miles from here has at least one thing to recommend it, and that is its paved path. I walked it on Saturday, right after mailing my letters.  Starting on McLearen, sun-warmed in the brisk air, I dipped off onto a trail I’d tramped long ago, turning left instead of right, navigating a fair-weather crossing right after a dog and his owner had just decided not to attempt it (the man was game but the dog was having none of it). 

From there it was just a bend and a hill-trudge from a buckled, fir-shaded, needle-strewn path along the greensward. Though I enjoy the meditative woods walk, there is much to be said for a stroll that skims the backs of houses. There’s an intimacy there you don’t find otherwise. 

I had a front-row seat on screened-in porches, knock-out roses and garden gates. There were trampolines, bird baths, even campaign signs. And on the path, a complement of fellow walkers who seemed as happy as I was to be alive and walking on such a fine fall morning.

The Big Send

The Big Send

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In an hour or two, I’ll drive to the Oak Hill post office to mail 100 letters, part of the Vote Forward campaign which today will send 15,000,000 (that’s 15 million!) letters to voters in swing states. The organizers are calling it the Big Send.

It’s a way to canvas for votes during a pandemic and it’s business for the beleaguered U.S. Postal Service. Plus … and this is my favorite part … it’s a vote of confidence for the old school approach: pen and paper, envelopes and stamps, snail mail. It’s harkening back to an epistolary mode of communication that’s so old it’s new again.

I’m glad I could find time recently to pen a few lines to voters who are registered but seldom go to the polls, explaining why I vote and encouraging them to do the same. It’s not exactly knocking on doors, but it’s a small movement in that direction. 

Playing a Scale

Playing a Scale

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In the meditation group at work, we’re beginning a two-week session on focus. It’s a skill many of us have lost, given the nature of the modern workplace, with emails, instant messages and other notifications pinging and zinging around us. All the more reason to give it a go. 

In the session that just ended we imagined the body as a scale, with various points — the ankles, solar plexus, chest and brow — as the notes. I struggled to visualize these “notes” in a way that wouldn’t bring PTSD from reliving the most difficult scales from my life as a piano student. (E major? B flat minor? I’ve forgotten so much that I no longer even remember which were most difficult!)

But never mind. The only “performance” that matters now is visualizing a light, like a bulb inside a shade, the narrator says, airy and spacious, touching all the “notes” along the scale. In time, we’ll be able to play this scale at will, simultaneously softening and sharpening our attention. In time, we’ll acquire focus. It sounds lovely — but I’ll believe it when I feel it.

Being Here

Being Here

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Sometimes on my morning strolls with Copper I look around at the familiar houses and yards, and catch my breath at the loveliness. It’s the slight roll of the land, the trees turning yellow and gold, the shaggy white miniature daisies that border the common land garden. 

This is not to say I live in some magical place, some beauty spot. It’s a subdivision in a suburb of Washington, D.C., (are there enough “subs” there?), one of hundreds. We love it for the sense of community we found from the beginning, and love it more now because it’s where the girls grew up. 

But what I was responding to this morning (and do so often these days) is the natural world that is more present now than it used to be. We have lost much during this pandemic — but one thing I’ve gained is a greater appreciation of this small patch of land where I find myself. 

It’s where I am most of the time now. And it’s not a bad place to be.

A Patch of Grass

A Patch of Grass

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Now that it’s fall, with cool nights and warm days, something is happening in the backyard, something I longed for all summer long: the grass is growing! I’ve seen it springing up all over the yard, but especially here, where it luxuriates with a few autumn leaves. 

While some homeowners worry about a patch of weeds, here we celebrate a patch of grass. I’d almost forgotten what it looks like, its long thin spears so soft on bare feet, so tempting to trod.

The ongoing lack of grass and subsequent weediness has been through no lack of trying. Seed has been sown, and sown, and sown. But the hard clay soil has seemed impervious to it. All the more reason to be gladdened now — that for some reason, be it rain or chill or slant of sun, the seed has finally taken.

Seeing this patch of grass now, feeling it tender beneath my feet … gives me hope. 

Paper and Pen

Paper and Pen

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The witch hazel is blazing bright yellow in the backyard, but at least so far, I’m working inside. I will work in chill but not damp chill (which we have today) — plus there is the sensitivity of the wonderful machine on which I type these words. One drop of moisture in the wrong place spells doom. Which has me thinking about the portability and beauty of paper and pen. 

I could no more do my work solely with those two items than I could with a stylus and clay tablet. But it’s worth mentioning how much freer one can feel with tools that weather the elements with fortitude and good cheer. 

The fickleness of the modern computer is one of those things that makes me feel I’m living my life atop a stormy sea of unknowingness. It’s a fair-weather implement that helps me when there’s power, but doesn’t when there’s not. I don’t really, truly understand how computers work, only that — somehow, miraculously — they do.

And of course, there’s the fact that this blog wouldn’t exist if I communicated  only with paper and pen. And there you have it: the modern dilemma in a nutshell … or at least one of its nutshells.

(Above: the little black book where I write when I’m not typing.)

Twin Branches Trail

Twin Branches Trail

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A weekend walk reminded me of just how wild the Reston trails can be, especially the stretch between Twin Branches and the W&OD Trail, which winds along the Snakeden Branch of the Glade.

It angles up, then steeply down, crosses a stream then follows it for three-quarters of a mile. Houses are a rare sight. Instead, it’s trees and paths and creek water singing.

How easy it is to forget it’s out there, the natural world, even as the suburbs have encapsulated it. But it’s still with us, in the small parcels we’ve allowed — still with us, to heal and inspire.

What’s Eating Folkstone?

What’s Eating Folkstone?

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Neighbors are buzzing. Theories abound. But no one has yet figured out why great swaths of lawn are being rooted up, ripped through and turn asunder. No one is quite sure what’s eating Folkstone. 

Is it that eight-point buck that’s been cruising the woods near here, pawing the ground in a show of virility as he partakes of our impatiens? Or could it be an errant bear, chunking up before winter comes.

The most believable theory is that hungry skunks or raccoons are tearing through the grass looking for grubs. Once they sniff them out, they paw through the dirt until they’ve eaten their fill. 

It’s hard to overstate just how bad a lawn looks after they’re finished with it. The photo above just hints at the damage. But stay tuned for more evidence soon. The latest plan: to install a remote camera.

Quick Trip to Bangladesh

Quick Trip to Bangladesh

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The news escapes slowly, as I learn which of my colleagues, liberated from the office until at least 2021, have quietly slipped away from their former homes to other (usually sunnier) climes. At least two have moved to North Carolina, one to the Outer Banks. Another is relocating from Arkansas to California. Still another has been living on the Delaware shore since March.

I won’t be moving anytime soon. But I have a wealth of armchair trips I can take. 

Right now, for instance, I’m thinking of Bangladesh, not a big vacation spot, true, but a place where I spent an intense and satisfying two and a half weeks in 2017. Having just written an article based on reporting I conducted there, I’m reminiscing more than usual about the place. 

It was the rainy season, and the fields were startlingly green.

Tea plants were ready for picking. 

Streets were bustling and rickshaws were colorful.

I met people I’ll never forget. 

Is it any wonder I can’t resist a backward glance?