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Author: Anne Cassidy

Appreciation

Appreciation

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Once again the days have passed, the splendid ones and the trying ones. Once again we’ve come back to this point, which is for me, and for many, the great pause. Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. Soon to be followed by New Year’s Day and the delicious week in between. Once again I’ll re-run this blog post, one I wrote in 2011. Merry Christmas!


12/24/11

Our old house has seen better days. The siding is dented, the walkway is cracked, the yard is muddy and tracked with Copper’s paw prints. Inside is one of the fullest and most aromatic trees we’ve ever chopped down. Cards line the mantel, the fridge is so full it takes ten minutes to find the cream cheese. Which is to say we are as ready as we will ever be. The family is gathering. I need to make one more trip to the grocery store.

This morning I thought about a scene from one of my favorite Christmas movies, one I hope we’ll have time to watch in the next few days. In “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Jimmy Stewart has just learned he faces bank fraud and prison, and as he comes home beside himself with worry, he grabs the knob of the banister in his old house — and it comes off in his hand. He is exasperated at this; it seems to represent his failures and shortcomings.

By the end of the movie, after he’s been visited by an angel, after his family and friends have rallied around him in an unprecedented way, after he’s had a chance to see what the world would have been like without him — he grabs the banister knob again. And once again, it comes off in his hand. But this time, he kisses it. The house is still cold and drafty and in need of repair. But it has been sanctified by friendship and love and solidarity.

Christmas doesn’t take away our problems. But it counters them with joy. It reminds us to appreciate the humble, familiar things that surround us every day, and to draw strength from the people we love. And surely there is a bit of the miraculous in that.

Photo: Flow TV

Slow Cooker

Slow Cooker

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Today it will be not turkey, ham or chicken …  but beef. Beef bourguignon, to be exact. An old crock pot recipe, a meal started in the wee hours to be served 10 hours later.
I wish there were a slow cooker setting for life, a way to slice and dice early, set the dial on “low” and let simmer all the thoughts, happenings, talks, tears and laughter of a year. 
Because that’s what I’m wanting now. To digest what has happened. 
Every year is like that,
but this one…
more than others. 
Origin Story

Origin Story

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After reading Sapiens a few months ago, I was looking for another “big” book. I’ve found one in Origin Story by David Christian.

The book is what is called “big history,” that is, not just the history of our country or of the world, but of the universe itself. It’s a story that could only recently have been told, due to discoveries about the universe and its beginnings made within the last few decades.



Origin Story starts with the big bang (threshold 1) and is organized around it and the eight thresholds that follow. Humans don’t even enter the picture till threshold 6, which was 200,000 years ago. Above all, then, this book puts us in our puny little place.

But it is also written with great reverence for human life, and awe at its development. There was never a guarantee that human beings would emerge from this ball of swirling elements, but somehow we did. Here’s one of my favorite passages from the book: 

The spooky thing about life is that, though the inside of each cell looks like pandemonium—a sort of mud-wrestling contest involving a million molecules—whole cells give the impression of acting with purpose. Something inside each cell seems to drive it, as if it were working its way through a to-do list. The to-do list is simple: (1) stay alive despite entropy and unpredictable surroundings; and (2) make copies of myself that can do the same thing. And so on from cell to cell, and generation to generation. Here, in the seeking out of some outcomes and the avoidance of others, are the origins of desire, caring, purpose, ethics, even love. 

Bouncing Back

Bouncing Back

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It was dark 15 minutes ago, at 7:30 a.m. Now, at 7:57, a wan winter light is finally seeping through the window blinds. But this is fine. I’ll take it. Because from here on, we’re getting lighter.

Reaching the Winter Solstice is like touching the bottom of the pool in 10-feet water. Slight scary and other-worldly—but also buoyant. Touch the bottom firmly enough and you will bounce back, all the way to the surface, where life is how it’s supposed to be.

For me, it’s supposed to be summer. This doesn’t mean I want to live in a place of eternal sunshine. But it does mean that normalcy is shorts, t-shirts and long evenings. Strangely enough, we may just have some of this today, as the temperature hits a freakish 65.

It may almost feel like Summer Solstice. But the early darkness will give it away.

Holiday Time

Holiday Time

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By December 20 we are deep into Christmas territory. These are days shaped before I had the knowledge to shape them. Days that lasted years when I was a young girl—and that never seemed long enough when I was a young mother.

Now they vanish quickly like the other days. Another work day, check. Another run to the store, to the mall, to the post office. Check, check, check.

How do we get back to the slow times?

Holidays offer promise. They can be fluid and what we make of them. They aren’t bound by the rules of typical time passage. I am holding out hope for them—as I do every year.

Wrap On

Wrap On

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The wrapping station has moved downstairs this year. No more bending over a bed or spreading the paper on the floor. I’ve (mostly) cleared the table behind the couch and will wrap at waist height with a Christmas-tree view.

So far, only a few gifts done … but looking forward to more soon.

Every year I remind myself that the days before Christmas are the best, that as much as I try to enjoy the week between, there’s often an anti-climax about it that requires pushing through.

This requires a two-fold approach: enjoy this time as much as possible … and the days to follow, also.

Hmmm … sounds familiar.

Lighting Our Way

Lighting Our Way

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Last night, Copper and I took a walk after work. I slipped on my reflective vest and we trotted off into the dark evening. It was chilly but not frigid, and Christmas lights made our way much brighter than it would have been otherwise.

Each year I need these lights even more, need their candles in the darkness, their collective fist shaken at the void.

I have my favorites—the classic white-bulbed colonial with the graceful fir swag, the spotlit front door with the fruit-studded wreath, the house with lights around the entire perimeter of the backyard. That house also has a star perched high on its chimney.

I wonder if the people who live there ask themselves, “Do we really want to do this again?” It must be a lot of work, tacking up hundreds of feet of lights. But every year they do it anyway. I hope they know that their lights, their effort, lifts the heart of this pilgrim, and, I imagine, the hearts of others, too.

(Pictured above: outdoor lights of a different sort.) 

Deluge!

Deluge!

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This weekend the Washington, D.C., region broke a 130-year-old record: It became the rainiest year ever here, with 63.62 inches compared with 61.33 inches from 1889. (The record-keeping started in 1871.) And who’s to say we couldn’t pick up an inch or two more before it’s all over. We have two weeks left, after all.

There were flooded roads throughout the region, including one of the two that leads to my neighborhood, with yellow caution tape strung across the intersection at the top of the hill.

As if that wasn’t enough, we also experienced the greatest three-day winter rainstorm ever: 3.44 inches from late Friday through late Sunday. It wasn’t a weekend to go caroling or drive around and look at the holiday light displays.

In fact, it was mostly a weekend to stay inside, sleep, decorate, cook and write Christmas cards. Or at least that’s how I chose to spend it.

Now that the workweek has begun, we have a clear day with a splendid sunrise. It’s been that kind of year.

Battle of the Blues

Battle of the Blues

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Putting up a suet block makes me feel a little like the teenager with a private-entrance basement and hands-off parents. Yeah, everyone parties at your house … but it isn’t because of your sparkling personality.

So yes, the birds are flocking to my deck, but it seems like cheating how we lured them here. On the other hand, bird-beggars can’t be choosers, so I’ve devoted a few minutes of my morning to observing the drama unfolding outside my window.

I first spotted the downy woodpeckers, who cling to railings and politely wait their turn at the suet block. I love their jaunty red heads and their ability to queue.

The bluebirds aren’t so patient. A flock of them must have moved into the area this morning, and they’re hungry. They’ve been flashing their brilliant tail feathers and just generally entrancing me since I saw them.

Unfortunately, they have rivals at the feeder. A band of bluejays are guarding the block, wielding their considerable bulk in a futile effort to keep their fellow blue birds away.

Though the jays are larger, the bluebirds are more nimble. They can contort their little bodies (showing off their lovely orange breasts) any which way to get at the suet. The bluejays, on the other hand, are hampered by size. Yes, they’re big and loud, but the bluebirds are making out like bandits. I’m pulling for them.

To Long Bridge and Back

To Long Bridge and Back

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I finally hit the neighborhood streets yesterday for my first fast walk in almost two weeks. In part it was the trip that made walking time scarce  … but this time of year it’s also lack of light.

As we approach the shortest day, I look for times to slip away and pound the pavement. When I work at home, I can work in a stretch at lunch time, but when I’m at the office, it’s a quick walk to Long Bridge Park and back.

It’s actually a pleasant stroll. Not enough time to work up a full head of steam, but enough to stretch the legs and clear the head.

This time of year the sidewalk is often empty, especially if the temps are below 40 and there’s a brisk wind.

And with Bach in my ears and a pile of work waiting back at my desk, I make the minutes count.

To Long Bridge and back. It’ll do.