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Author: Anne Cassidy

The Kindness Trail

The Kindness Trail

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I saw the chalk drawings from a distance, hearts and flowers and smiley faces. They made me think of when my girls were young and would cover the driveway with chalk art, too.

But the closer I came to the drawings, the more entranced I was by them. There were words with the illustrations. “Put the ‘I’ in kindness,” “Say hello to your neighbor.” “One kind word makes all the difference.” The neighborhood paths were filled with these sayings, each batch headlined “The Kindness Trail.”

The installations were signed “By Hailey and Maddie.” Was this a project for school? Was there a hidden camera gauging the reaction of each passerby? There were cups of chalk along the way, too. Were we supposed to chime in with our own cheerful responses? I thought about it, but decided to show my gratitude another way.

So Hailey and Maddie … if you’re out there now, I want you to know that the Kindness Trail put a smile on my face and a spring in my step. It made my day.

Fifteen Years

Fifteen Years

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Today is what I used to call my “sad little anniversary” — but I don’t call it that anymore. For one thing it isn’t little, since it marked a profound change in my life. And for another, it isn’t sad. I mostly said this because of journalistic scruples — and I don’t feel those much anymore.

Fifteen years ago today I took a staff magazine writing job for a university publication, ending 17 years of full-time freelancing. I had been happy and productive as my own boss, cranking out hundreds of articles for scores of national magazines. I even wrote a couple of books. But the creative well was running a little dry, the pocketbook was feeling a bit slim — and the job presented itself as an attractive option.

I told myself that I could always leave if I was miserable. But I wasn’t miserable, and the staff writing job led to an alumni magazine editor job and eventually to my current work writing for a nonprofit development organization.

I have stepped further away from my journalistic roots than I ever thought I would. But I long ago realized that every writer answers to someone, be that a magazine editor, an advertiser or a communications director. And my writing is doing far more good now — helping survivors of human trafficking, for example — than it was when it was used to sell makeup or diapers.

Which is not to say I have no quibbles. Almost none of my work is bylined. I put words in other people’s mouths. I am an employee. More and more, I long for time to do my own writing. And, every October 12th, I think about the choice I made. Was it the right one? I’ll never know.

Tripping the Light Domestic

Tripping the Light Domestic

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Sometimes the tasks of the day seem to weigh me down. They are just more to-dos in a sea of them. But other times, they are actions of such richness and delight that I wonder why I ever thought them otherwise.

Take today, for instance. Since I’m working at home I leisurely brewed a pot of tea, whipped up one of my strawberry milkshakes and had both at the ready as I read through email. It was a pleasure to give Copper his pill, to coax him to eat his breakfast by sprinkling a meaty treat on the dog food.

What makes the difference, I think, is time. When I rush through each chore, I am only in check-off mode. There is no presence. Whereas when I’m not in a rush, the day spreads out before me, a banquet of sights, smells and activities.

Tripping the light fantastic means dancing nimbly. Tripping the light domestic means walking lightly through the day.

Seek Discomfort

Seek Discomfort

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This morning I boarded the inbound Metro at the last minute, finding a full train for the second time this week. Though I often don’t get a seat on the way home from the office, I usually do get one on the way there, since I start at the end of the line.

But today, no way. So I set down my bag, pulled out my newspaper and settled in for the duration. It’s not a long ride, and I could use the standing time. Which is not to say I didn’t fantasize about someone popping up and offering me a seat. I wasn’t even sure that I would take it, but I wanted it to be offered. (Perverse, but true.)

That’s when I noticed the teenager in the yellow sweatshirt. He was sitting in one of the side-facing seats and was, like most riders, totally absorbed in his phone. His sweatshirt read “Seek Discomfort.” How ironic, I thought. Apparently, this did not extend to the discomfort of giving up his seat to a middle-aged woman.

But then, as if he read my mind, he looked up, caught my eye and smiled.  It was such a sweet smile. He must have been all of 15. “Would you like this seat?” he said.

“Oh, no,” I replied. “I’m fine. But thank you.”

He had sought discomfort. And so had I.

Back to Slow

Back to Slow

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Our little doggie has injured himself again. Like many of us who are getting older, he doesn’t always recognize the limits of his strength and endurance. We found him whimpering at the bottom of the deck stairs Monday night. Once again, it seems, the darkness and the stairs have done him in, and he now has his second torn ACL.

When he walks slowly, I walk slowly. So we strolled a few houses down and back this morning, taking in the fine new smell of the morning and getting a sense of the day.

As he sniffs, I look around. There was a fox, not more than 50 feet away, staring at us. Could Copper have possibly missed him? I think he did. Maybe the fox is why I woke to the sound of a crow caw. Was it a warning from one bird to his flock?

Closer to home, we ambled beneath the weeping cherry, now sparsely leaved. It was dripping pink petals the last time Copper was injured. We are charting the seasons with our strolls. I inhale deeply, ponder the dearness of this doggie, and walk on.

(Speaking of foxes, I snapped a photo of this one a few months ago in the backyard.)

Q4

Q4

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I believe this is my shortest blog title ever, though not my shortest blog post … at least I don’t think it will be!

It dawned on me the other day that I’m starting to think in quarters. Not 25-cent quarters, but business-year quarters. This is in part because I work for a nonprofit organization that talks of quarters, and I attend all-staff meetings that have recently begun happening four times a year rather than more often and more randomly.

And it was at that meeting, with its talk of the Q3 just ending and the Q4 to come, that I thought … hmmm, this is different: thinking in quarters rather than single months.  It’s perfect for the speeding up of time that seems to be more and more the subliminal topic of my days.

But it is also a convenient way to frame time, to chunk it up, so to speak. And although in one way it makes time speed up (already in the fourth quarter!), in another it makes it slow down (there are three months to measure instead of just one). It’s yet another way to live our lives … and I’m always looking for those.

Room with a View

Room with a View

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This morning I moved all my worldly office possessions a few steps down the hall into an office. It has four walls (one of them glass), no door and two huge windows. Best of all, I can turn off the overhead light and leave it off to my heart’s content.

Once they figure out how to mount my Mac monitor (this is most assuredly a PC environment) on a standing desk, I’ll be able to stand up in here too (something I was reluctant to do in Cubicle Land).

I write this post (quickly, during my break) looking southeast at the building across the courtyard and the train tracks that run all the way to Florida. Beyond the trees is the highway, then the airport, then the Potomac River and Maryland.

I’ve been lusting after an office since I arrived here, and I’ll only have this one a few months (we move to a new building next spring). But while I’m here, I plan to enjoy it. And sitting here looking out the window, laptop on lap, feet resting on trashcan … is an excellent way to begin.

Reaching Out

Reaching Out

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Last night at a neighborhood gathering I learned about the tragic death of a young father whom I’d met on a walk about a year ago. I only spoke once with him and his wife. They’d just bought a house whose former occupants I knew, and had just found a little snake when I happened by.

I assured them the snake wasn’t poisonous and that these things happen around here. (I’ve found snakes in our house a few times.) The couple was friendly, and for once I wasn’t hurrying so we could talk. We chatted about the neighborhood, I met their darling 6-year-old twins, and I’d think of the family often when I walked past their house.

Over the summer things didn’t seem right there. The house and yard looked abandoned, with tall grass and unkempt hedges. The couple was from India, so I thought maybe they’d taken an extended vacation to visit family.

But last night I learned the truth. The husband died suddenly months ago. The wife is staying here with her children, with various relatives coming over to help. Life has changed radically for this family.

Once I took in the news with its sadness, its revelation of that which we understand though seldom acknowledge — that life can change in an instant — what I was left with was the inadequacy of superficial knowledge.

We walkers in the suburbs think we’re keeping an eye on things, but really we see just the barest outline of it all.  To be fully plugged in means more than just walking through; it means staying put, listening, talking — reaching out.

Suddenly Cool

Suddenly Cool

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It was 37 last night here. I’m tempted to research highs and lows to learn just how long ago it was since we had such a temperature. Back to April, I imagine.

In honor of the brisk air, I’m back in black running tights and sweatshirt — and am wishing for socks that came up farther than my ankles.  Seasonal change may finally be upon us.

I’m no fan of cold weather, but once it’s here, I remember why we need it: to kick the fall foliage into high gear, to energize us — and, more than anything else, to provide variety.

It feels good to pull on tights — not just because they are warm, but because they are different.

Turning Right

Turning Right

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I left the house early, out for a walk and an artist’s date. The walk was one of the usuals — until I turned right instead of left at the end of Glade and ended up on an unpaved section of the Cross County Trail.

It slowed me down, this packed-dirt, root-strewn path. And slowing down was a good thing. I noticed the light filtering through the early autumn leaves, some just starting to change. I heard a bluejay squawk. Finally, I took my earbuds out so I could hear Little Difficult Run sing as it tripped over its large smooth stones.

Back to my car and inspired by the trail, I decided to drive past houses that line it. Some of them look small and down-sizable, worth a second glance.

Now I’m writing at a coffeeshop I recently discovered. The Doobie Brothers are playing, I’m tapping my feet and trying to concentrate.

Maybe not the perfect artist’s date, but it’s a start.