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Author: Anne Cassidy

Intentionality

Intentionality

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In the guided meditation I’ve been doing through work we’ve been exploring the idea of intentionality, of directing our practice toward others who will benefit from it, those at home or in the (now virtual) workplace.

It’s something I recall doing at a yoga class I took years ago, devoting the effort, the realizations and the calmness to a cause beyond ourselves. Back then one or two of my children were still in their teenage years, so I never had a lack of intention.

But I’ve realized today as I’ve pondered this practice (not during the meditation itself, oh no, never then; I’m not thinking about anything then!) is that it’s familiar from even longer ago. It reminds me of something I was taught in my Catholic grammar school, which was to “offer up” our daily trials for the poor souls in Purgatory.

I’m not sure Purgatory is still a thing (a place?) anymore, but the notion of directing our collective effort toward a greater good very much appeals to me. It means that there is a reservoir of good will abroad in the land that we can add to and draw from as needed.  And surely we could all benefit from that.

Limit Two

Limit Two

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The grocery store signage of the hour doesn’t advertise the latest sale, doesn’t promise half price or double coupons. The grocery store signage of the hour says “Limit Two.” Customers are told they can buy no more than two liquid soap dispensers, two gallons of milk, two dozen eggs, two pounds of butter and two boxes of pasta.

It is the language of scarcity, the language of a pandemic and, in this topsy-turvy world in which we now live, perhaps also the language of the future.

Are we, after so much abundance, entering an era of scarcity? It certainly seems so. There are fewer jobs, fewer certainties — and most definitely fewer rolls of toilet paper.

But even after the production of goods has been ramped up I wonder if we will keep the “Limit Two” mentality. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Because what Limit Two does most of all is to acknowledge that there are those who come after us — and they will be wanting their milk, eggs and butter too.

(Photo: NJ.com)

Long Woods Walk

Long Woods Walk

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Yesterday, I went out early for the weekly groceries, donned mask and gloves, observed social distancing, came home and wiped everything off before putting it all away and then decided …  I needed a walk. And not just any walk — but a long woods walk.

I took a Reston path that leads to the Cross County Trail. It’s a section of the CCT that I often stroll, but yesterday I went further, into a place where the first sign you see warns you of snakes in the area.

It’s a fitting intro to a wilder, more hike-like area. It was easy to imagine I was miles away not just from desk and to-dos — but also from the section of trail I just covered.

I nodded to a father and two sons jogging down the trail; to a man and his children who were exploring ants on a log; and to several others out enjoying the sun and pretending this was an ordinary spring Friday.

The music in my ears seemed redundant, so I pulled out the buds and listened to woodpeckers and robins. I stopped on a bridge over the Snakeden Branch Stream and heard the water talk to itself. How lovely and clear it looked as it tumbled over rocks, all white and frothy as it landed.

It was almost two hours later when I got back to the car. The walk had turned into a hike. The day seemed larger and brighter than it had before.

Old Blue Shoes

Old Blue Shoes

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I had been meaning to replace them late last year, then in January … and February … and March. But by the time retail shopping shut down last month I still hadn’t bought a new pair of running shoes to replace my beat-up, ratty-looking old ones.

It’s not as if I couldn’t purchase a pair of replacements online. But I like to try on shoes before buying them.

So I soldier on, hoping the toe hole won’t grow much larger, hoping that the soles won’t shed any more rubber, that the heels won’t grow any lumpier than they are now.

Making do. It’s what we do now.

(This title a tip of the hat to New Blue Shoes, one of Claire’s favorite books when she was a little girl.)

Cold Air, Cut Grass

Cold Air, Cut Grass

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If the aroma of cut grass is the soul of summer, then how do you describe the way it smells on a cold April afternoon? To me there has always been something both melancholic and hopeful about the scent.

It’s the promise of warmth, not the actuality. But it’s also freshness without qualification; when it’s young and hungry, when its juices flow freely.

To catch a whiff of a freshly mown lawn on a brisk spring day is to imagine all the delights that lie in store. But it’s also to imagine how quickly they can wither.

It is the seasonal reverse but the poetic equivalent of what Gerard Manley Hopkins describes in Spring and Fall:

It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Breathing

Breathing

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If someone asks me a few months from now how I got through the quarantine,  I will say, well, I kept breathing. This will sound flippant and I won’t mean it to.  It’s not just that I kept breathing. But I’ve kept breathing.

The italics are important. They denote not just the unconscious, staying-alive kind of breathing, but also the breathing that’s suggested in guided meditations and yoga classes, which I’ve been taking plenty of these last several weeks.

This is focused breathing, in-and-out-through-the-nose breathing or sometimes in-through-the-nose-out-through-the-mouth breathing. It’s putting one hand on my heart and one hand on my stomach and feeling the breath moving through my body. It’s becoming aware of the rise and fall, the inflow and outflow.

I’m a remedial meditation student, but I am learning to appreciate the power of deep breathing to settle the mind and calm the body. Breathe in, breathe out. Ah, that’s better.

Brown Butter to the Rescue

Brown Butter to the Rescue

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I’ve been late to jump on the baking bandwagon. Despite an accidental oversupply of flour — bought long before the pandemic emptied grocery store shelves of it — I’ve had neither the time nor the inclination to bake my way out out of this crisis.

Instead I’ve picked up my pen and my journal. I’ve taken two walks a day instead of one, or bounced on the trampoline in the backyard. Moving through space and time have been my remedies.

Until recently, that is. Yesterday, I finally used the stick of butter that had been softening on the counter for days to bake brown butter chocolate chip cookies, a delectable treat first shared by my daughter Claire from the Pioneer Woman Cookbook. These are made with tiny M&Ms, and the ingredient that sets them apart is the brown butter, which gives them a crispness and a richness that must be tasted to be believed.

So, for the second time in a week, I share a food picture.

We must be quarantined or something.

Quarantine Chalk Art

Quarantine Chalk Art

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Rain has pummeled the Kwanzan cherry, sending a shower of petals to the ground. Rain has also washed away the chalk messages that have been decorating driveways recently. I’ve been counting on these cheerful words on my daily walks around the neighborhood.

“Happy Easter! Happy Spring!” says one driveway.

“Don’t worry! Be happy!,” says another.

And my favorite —”Flatten the curve” — is undoubtedly by a Dr. Anthony Fauci wannabe.

Chalk art is one of the unexpected blessings of the quarantine.  Though the rain has washed away one batch, I know that another will sprout as soon as the pavement dries.

(Photo: Courtesy La Mesa Courier)

Things Not Seen

Things Not Seen

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“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” 

This quotation popped into my head this morning. I had to google it to learn that it’s from the Old Testament, not the New (Hebrews 11:1). But surely what it expresses is perfect for a day when Christians around the world celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

We are still in the tomb. Four weeks into quarantine, with a death toll that’s just put the U.S. into first place in a tally we didn’t want to win, it’s easy to feel hopeless.

But — I remind myself on an early walk, looking at the purposeful new leaves of the dogwood — it’s when we’re in the tomb that we need hope the most.

 

Eggs-travaganza!

Eggs-travaganza!

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Even when it will just be the three of us for actual Easter dinner (as opposed to the virtual one that will take place on Zoom), I still make too much food. A huge bowl of ambrosia, and 18 eggs, which means 36 deviled ones.

I make too much food even when there’s a crowd to consume it. So this year there will be leftovers galore. But they will be eaten, I’m sure of it (quarantines being good for cooking and eating, if not much else).

These deviled eggs — or dressed eggs, as I grew up hearing them called — were made the way I usually make them, which is by taste. I never recall using a recipe. Instead, I imagine Dad whipping up the yolks, adding vinegar and mayonnaise, asking us to taste and tell us if he had the balance right.  In my memory, he always did.

These eggs aren’t exactly ready for a close-up, but they were made with love.