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Author: Anne Cassidy

Baby Trees

Baby Trees

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“A society grows great when people plant trees in whose shade they will never sit.”
Greek proverb

Last winter I sent a $10 donation to the Arbor Day Foundation, which promised to send me an American redbud, crape myrtle, crabapple, Washington hawthorn and white dogwood in exchange.

And that they did.  The trees arrived last week in a little bag, their roots protected with a watery gel. Here they are in a jar of water, looking more like a dead plant that a bunch of potential trees.

It’s not that I expected lush greenery for my tiny investment. But I was still a bit shocked by the meagerness of the saplings.

Still, they have potential. One day these sticks will grow roots and leaves, trunks and boughs. They will turn their faces to the sun, rustle their leaves in the wind. One day my grandchildren may sit in their shade.

At this point, though, I have modest expectations for the baby trees. Given the number of tall oaks we’ve lost the last few years, I just hope that they bend rather than break when the wind blows.

Fernweh and Heimweh

Fernweh and Heimweh

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Homesickness is when you long for the place you know best of all. But what about its opposite? Wanting to venture to a place you’ve never been? It’s a feeling deeper than wanderlust, stronger than attachment. Until the other day, I didn’t know it has a name.

Farsickness —or “fernweh” from the German “fern” (far) and “weh” (pain) is when you yearn for a place you’ve never been, for the faraway. I heard about it on the radio, and a quick Google search shows me the word has been out there for a while. There are “Fernweh” t-shirts and “Farsickness” travel blogs.

Digging a little deeper I learn that the word “homesick” also entered our language from the German — “heimweh.” It comes from a Swiss dialect and can also mean longing for the mountains. Ah, I think, just like Heidi. Remember when she’s sent to Frankfurt and entertains Clara but all she wants is to go back and live with her grandfather on the mountain?

To have “fernweh” we need “heimweh.” The familiar propels us to the faraway — then brings us home again.

Reminders

Reminders

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I grew up on road trips — long, car-sick journeys to Cincinnati, Greensburg or Natural Bridge. Kentucky is rolling country, so driving through it is not for the faint of stomach. Dramamine was my friend.

None of this dampened my love of travel. In fact, it conditioned me to rigor. Which brings me to these wonderful trips I’ve taken the last two years. They haven’t been easy either — once I get there. But the fact that I can board one plane, then another — and wind up on the other side of the world …  will never stop being miraculous to me. 
So in honor of the miraculous, and because I want to keep reminding myself I was there … a few photographs from Nepal.
Haiku Day + One

Haiku Day + One

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Late Tuesday I learned

The day’s syllabic net worth,
April 17th.
This year’s Haiku Day
Was almost done when a text
Knocked me flat with joy:
“Metal birds stirring
Orange claws puncture the night sky
Sunrise at Reagan.”
Thank you, Ms. Abo,
My own firstborn, Suzanne E,
Keep writing poems!
As the Light Allows

As the Light Allows

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As the days lengthen I notice new landmarks on my evening walks through Arlington. Yesterday’s “find” was discovering the Virginia Square Metro Station. I looked to the left, and there it was. Not that I was ready to ride the rails. I pushed on to the Ballston Station. But it was nice to know it was there.

My first walk on this route was late last year. I barely made it to Court House before the street lights came on. And by Clarendon it was completely dark, so I hopped on a Metro there.

I got lost on my next two forays to the neighborhood. First I swung too far to the north, the next time too far to the south. I was looking for the middle way.

It took the brighter afternoons of early spring to reveal it. Fairfax Drive, the street I was looking for, looks like a parking lot when you enter from the east. It’s only when you stroll a few yards beyond the entry way that you see it blossom into a road. This is not something I could discern in darkness or even in dusk; full daylight was required.

I like discovering this neighborhood little by little, as the light allows.

Mischief Managed

Mischief Managed

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This is what you say to close the Marauders Map, also handy for concluding any project, in Harry Potterese. And the project I’m concluding is reading the seven J.K. Rowling books.

This was urged on me by youngest and most Harry Potter-familiar daughter. She was my guide for this endeavor, finding each new book in the series wherever it was hiding in the house, keeping remarkably mum about certain things that I will also not disclose (which means there are no spoiler alerts in this post!).

What there is, is an appreciation for these modern classics, for their presence in this world, for the fact that my daughters grew up with them. They do what books for young people ought to do, which is to give them a taste of the world, its joys and sorrows, treacheries and sanctuaries.

Yes, there is plenty of evil and danger, they say, but you can handle it if you work hard, trust your instincts and seek the counsel of good friends. And what saves the day, always, is love.

Deck Thoughts

Deck Thoughts

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It’s my first work morning on the deck since last fall. I’ve cleaned the glass-top table and brought out the old seat cushions.

Now, instead of the clickety-clack of computer keys, I hear the drone of a chain saw, distant traffic noise, small birds chittering.

There is plenty of mental effort required for the writing I do, but once outside all I see are the physical chores: tying down the climbing rose, chopping up the dead wood, preparing the garden for spring.

It’s a bit overwhelming until I remind myself of this: We’re here to labor, to try and fail, to wonder and to grow.

Brave Blossoms

Brave Blossoms

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The weather will warm up here for a couple of days, a welcome development. But I’ve enjoyed what the chilly temperatures have done for our spring … which is, of course, to prolong it.

The Bradford pear trees were in fine fettle when I arrived home from Asia two weeks ago — and they’re still going strong. Forsythia and daffodils, spring’s yellow front line, are still around, too. And we’ve had a lovely run of tulips and hyacinths.

And then there are the famed cherry trees. I saw them in the Tidal Basin with Suzanne, then in the Kenwood neighborhood of Bethesda with my friends Lyn and Andrea, who were visiting last weekend. The cherries in Bethesda are planted on either side of the road, so their branches entwine to make a tunnel of blossoms. It was magical!

As we move to the next batch of bloom, I can’t resist a backward glance and a toast to the brave flowers of early spring.

Digital Trail

Digital Trail

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I’m not a big Facebook user. I remember posting vacation photos on the social media site once years ago — and realizing how much control I lost when I did that. I’ve been skittish about the site ever since.

But I give away data all the time, in ways great and small. The books I order, the words I write, the tweets I tweet — all leave a digital trail.  All I can do is make it a faint one.

Privacy has been on my mind these days, what with revelations that Facebook sold user data to Cambridge Analytica. I was amused to learn that an enterprising AP photographer was able to snap a picture of the talking points that Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg had in front of him at yesterday’s congressional hearings.

The New York Times reports this tidbit: “Resign? Founded Facebook. My decisions. I made mistakes. Big challenge, but we’ve faced problems before, going to solve this one. Already taking action.” And, if he had been asked if Facebook should be broken up, Zuckerberg was prepared to say: “U.S. tech companies key asset for America. Breakup strengthens Chinese companies.”

 It’s a fitting irony that Zuckerberg was outed not by social media but by old-fashioned media. Long live the camera … and the pen!

(Savvy Facebook users might learn that this was my high school.)

Staging a Revolt

Staging a Revolt

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Last weekend’s getaway not only involved a garret room, but it also brought me face-to-face with the practice of staging. Not the kind they do on Broadway … but the kind they do in competitive real estate markets.

Staging, from what I can tell, involves taking every shred of personality out of a house and leaving behind what you might find in a high-end hotel room. Potential buyers can see the house stripped of unnecessary clutter and distraction, can see just its bones.  No bills thrown on the dining room table, no keys hung by the back door.
But what if you’re looking not for the bones of a house but for its soul? What if you are looking for a house that touches you, a house where happy lives, real lives, have been lived? 
If I was shown a staged home, I would open drawers and shower curtains, would look high and low for signs of habitation. I’d pay less attention to the perfect birch logs in the fireplace and more to the almost hidden crack in the closet door. 
Agents assume that buyers want a blank canvas on which to sketch a new scene.  I’d rather paint on top of what’s already there.