A walk last night after work, late enough that the sun slanted low in the sky, blinding me as I walked west.
Weeks of rain were forgotten, blue sky ruled. But it was the air that caught my attention.
It was weightless and fine-tuned, a caress.
If all birthdays should hold within them some memento mori, some reflections on our own mortality, then my recent one was complete even in that way, with the funeral of an acquaintance, a woman my age (too young to die!) held Saturday in a local cemetery.
Attending this funeral brought many thoughts to mind: Sadness for the family, especially the two twenty-something children who now must make their way without their mom; gratitude for my own health and family, for everything I have; and relief that I’ve escaped a trap that suburban living makes women especially prone to.
It isn’t always easy to schlep to the office, but the suburbs have a way of sucking women in and making everything about the kids. While I made sure I was home with the girls as much as possible when they were young, and I look back on those years as some of the most precious and happiest of my life, I tried always to have a separate self, a career (writing) self — an Anne that is not also Mom.
Now I tell my girls to do this, to keep themselves alive. The childrearing years only seem like they’ll last forever. In truth, they’re over in a flash. When they are, you want a self to go back to.
Spending one’s birthday evening at the symphony may not seem the hippest thing to do, but for feeling young, it can’t be beat. At the symphony the hair color is decidedly white and the movement style decidedly shuffle. Average age — average! — can’t be less than 75.
While this makes me fear for the state of classical music, it does just the opposite for the state of my health and energy level.
Ride the elevator? Of course not. Let’s take the stairs. Hum out loud during the Schumann? Maybe in the car but never in public.
But what the audience lacked in vigor, the orchestra more than made up for. During one challenging set of runs, the violin section stood up and finished the passage with a flourish. And for the encore — one of Brahms’ “Hungarian Dances” — the entire orchestra leapt to their feet. Except for the cellists, of course.
So thank you, Baltimore Symphony. Last night you made me feel forever young.
In the last few weeks, I’ve been making more of an effort to stretch after running or walking or bouncing. This is something I always mean to do but never have time for.
Now it’s time. Past time, if you want to know the truth.
Stretching not just the body but the mind and heart. It’s one of the best ways I can think of to stay limber, to keep growing and changing, not to ossify with age.
It’s a personal goal for my own personal new year, which starts … today.
If I had endless subject matter (which I do) I wouldn’t have to write twice in one week about roses. But roses are on my mind right now. On my mind — and in my sight.
As I write, the petals are oh so softly falling off the New Dawn Climbing rose. It budded slowly this year in the cold spring, then burst quickly into blossom. Night before last it shimmered in the little porch lights, a fairy garden.
I chose this plant from a garden catalog shortly after we moved to this house. I wanted an English cottage garden, and climbing roses would be part of it.
They are the only part of it that survived. Virginia does not have a cool, rainy climate. Astilbe and larkspur don’t flourish here.
But the New Dawn has thrived. It clambers over the pergola, hangs heavy over the glass-topped table.
It is a gracious nod toward projects past, a hopeful sign of projects future.
It was the standard answer every time one of the kids needed a book for class. “We have that book … somewhere.” At which point the search would begin.
Was it in the office, where there are two floor-to-ceiling book shelves? In the living room’s built-in bookcase (one of the two reasons we bought the house, the other being the big backyard)? Was it the alcove bookshelf at the top of the stairs? Or in the new bookshelves by the bathroom? In Suzanne’s room, or Claire’s or Celia’s? Or maybe in the basement. There are bookshelves under the window there (mostly children’s classics) or by the door to the laundry room (a hodgepodge).
Chances are, though, that the book was somewhere I hadn’t thought to look — behind another row of books.
While I remembered double-shelving some books that way, there were rows of others I just recently found.
It was like discovering a hidden kingdom, realizing there were 40, 50 or 60 books I’d completely forgotten we had. Or maybe not… Maybe those were the books I was looking for all along!
On a walk last week I stopped to snap a picture of a blue spruce with its new green growth. This happens every year, of course, but for once I was in a position to notice it.
I love the dusty blue of the mature tree, how it looks so wintry in winter with its cool tones, its chilly hue. But I think I love it even more now after seeing the green behind it.
Look beneath the hood, it tells me. See what there is to see,
Today I have only four hours of Winrock work ahead of me then an afternoon and three whole days off. I’m wondering what it would be like to have unlimited time and space. Frightening at first, I imagine, but maybe not. It would be stepping off the carousel into some sort of other time-space continuum with only my own to-do list to guide me.
Here’s the thing, though. I have a hefty internal to-do list. It’s a vague one, needing time and energy to flesh out, and the thought of being face-to-face with it is mildly terrifying.
But still, there are mornings like this, full of blooming roses and chirping parakeets, when I’d like nothing better than to chuck it all and just … be …. free …
Today was my parent’s wedding anniversary, so I’m thinking about them and about my visit to the cemetery last weekend when I was in Lexington.
I’m lucky that it’s only been recently that I factor in a trip to the cemetery when I visit home. But factor it in I do. On the last trip I thought about what a lovely view is available from their final resting place. It’s an open sunny expanse, with cows grazing in a grassy field a stone’s throw away. One could argue that the view from a plot doesn’t matter to those who inhabit it, but it does to those who visit.
Because it’s a military cemetery, there are strict restrictions on what kinds of flowers and ornaments you can lay on the graves. I settled for a small American flag, in honor of Dad’s service and the upcoming Memorial Day. Next time, I’ll bring flowers for Mom.
An early walk this morning through a damp May morning. Peonies hang their heads, roses, too. Iris stand upright, beards glistening, and grasses gleam with moisture. I tip the heavy planter where the new impatiens are struggling to root; they’re almost floating in water, we’ve had so much rain.
It’s the time of year when everything seems most alive. Cardinals sing and swoop. Copper comes inside drenched from rainwater he’s picked up from scooting underneath the azalea bushes. Honeysuckle scent wafts from a tangle of greenery down at the corner. I inhale deep whiffs of it coming and going.
How nice it would be if I could follow this day through its moments. If I could walk, run, bounce and pedal through it. If I could be present for its drowsy afternoon.
Instead, I clean up and drive, walk, Metro and bus to the city. I write these words in a clean, calm office building made of steel and glass. The buzzing, blaring natural world seems far away.
I can’t wait to get back to it.