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Author: Anne Cassidy

Meadow Trail

Meadow Trail

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Walking from a parking lot to the library this weekend I cut through an empty lot bursting with bloom. There were buttercups and daisies and plentiful purple self-heal. There was a shaggy, shrubby intensity to the overgrowth, a bursting-at-the-seams quality that is the soul of June and the soul of any meadow worth its salt.

A narrow path crossed the flowery expanse, just wide enough for foot fall, with tenacious roots that clawed their way across the dusty dirt. It was mid-afternoon of the hottest day yet this season, and the meadow lacked even a stick of shade.

I was in the epicenter of summer, a buzzing, blazing bounty of growth and color and aroma. I had places to go and errands to run — was expecting nothing more than a shortcut, a quick trot from A to B. I found instead a destination, a place of beauty and peace.

Comey Walk

Comey Walk

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There is the quiet walk: no earphones, mind open to bird song and insect chirp.

There is the musical walk: with Brahms or Bach or Simon and Garfunkel.

And then there is the Comey walk. That’s what I’ve been taking the last few days. It’s a subset of the all-news walk, and it consists of the following: what will he say, what did he say, and now, what will happen because of what he said.

This is not the most restful soundtrack for an early-morning stroll. But it’s an itch that must be scratched. As soon as I returned home this morning I picked up the newspaper. Now I’m reading about what Comey said. At least I’m consistent.

Wearing Purple

Wearing Purple

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This morning on Metro I realized I was wearing a purple jacket, holding a phone with a purple cover and wearing glasses with a purple frame.

It’s just a coincidence, I told myself. I’m not turning into one of those old women who wears purple. Not that there’s anything wrong with the color. But I’d rather not wait till I’m old to wear it — and, more to the point, I’d rather not wait till I’m old to be a free spirit.

Yes, there’s something to be said for how years lessen the esteem with which we hold the opinions of others. Maybe that’s because we’ve seen more foolishness. But I hope it’s because we’re more tolerant of ourselves and others, that we’ve grown in compassion as well as nerve. If that’s what frees us … then bring it on.

Power of the Path

Power of the Path

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Diana Nyad has traded her swimmer’s goggles for a pair of tennis shoes. The long-distance swimmer and her best friend and colleague Bonnie Stoll aim to get Americans off their posteriors and on their feet. To aid in this endeavor, they have created a movement called EverWalk.

Pointing out that “sitting is the new smoking” (a phrase coined by Dr. James Levine, who invented the treadmill desk), Nyad and Stoll implore Americans to sign a pledge to walk three times a day. Even if it’s just a few steps down the block, they say, it’s a beginning. More avid walkers can sign up for long-distance walks. There will be one from Boston to Cape Elizabeth, Maine, this September.

One of the things I like best about walking is the quiet alone time it gives me — but I’m certainly open to the social aspect of walking and the power of the group hike. I like to imagine a wall of walkers striding across the land. They are strong and they are true. And they are not sitting.

Inner Cowboy

Inner Cowboy

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I waffled about the title. Should I say “Inner Cowgirl”? Or perhaps the gender-neutral “Inner Cowherd”? No, I’ll stick with the inaccurate and politically incorrect “Cowboy”— because it’s the word to use when describing the TV series “Lonesome Dove,” last weekend’s escape fare.

I can’t get the show or its theme song out of my head, even though I’ve watched it before and read the book it was based on. It’s same effect every time — one of enlargement, and even (despite the tragedies that beset the cattle drive from Texas to Montana) of joy.  It’s the characters and their quest.  It’s the frontier, the heartbeat of a nation. And it’s the sweeping views of rivers and plains and buttes and valleys.

As national myths go, it’s not a bad one, though it has certainly gotten us into trouble: the rugged individualist wedded to guns and glory. But if offers to the suburban commuter some sense of elemental wholeness, of a time when life was harder but perhaps truer. I could be all wrong on this, though. It could just be my inner cowboy talking.

Decisions, Decisions

Decisions, Decisions

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I keep meaning to put my wardrobe through the “does it spark joy?” test described in Marie Kondo’s book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Until I do, I’m bound to have mornings like today, when I tried on one top after another, finally settling on the one I chose first.

Clothes confusion, choice aversion — finding no combination that quite works. It may be brought on by the relaxed nature of weekend shorts and t-shirt — followed by the jarring need to look halfway presentable in the office on Monday.

I wish I’d taken a picture of the discarded choices: white shirt, black sweater, red shell, black shrug. They were a kaleidoscope of colors, a collage of might-have-beens.

Decisions, decisions.

(Photo: Wikipedia. No time to photograph my own discarded outfits.)

Walk through the Gloaming

Walk through the Gloaming

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These are long days that know how to finish. Light lingers till 9, and tempts the walker to stroll at a time she would normally be getting ready for bed!

Last night was like that. Dinner out with Ellen, then, on the way back to the parking garage, a thought: Why not a quick walk on the W&OD Trail, a 45-mile ribbon of asphalt from the D.C. suburbs to the foot of the Blue Ridge. It’s easy to reach from Reston Town Center, and, as it turned out, only a few steps from my car. 
It was 8:40 when I started, but the light that seemed abundant when I began drained quickly as I walked  first west then east. The W&OD closes at dusk, but that meant nothing to long-distance bikers with their powerful headlamps, or to the rest of us, either, who sauntered at a twilight pace.  It was good to walk through the gloaming.
Culinary Roots

Culinary Roots

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For this year’s birthday dinner I asked for — and received — an old favorite: fried chicken. It was yummy! The older (!) I get the more I return to my culinary roots: friend chicken (southern style), mashed potatoes, sandwiches on white bread.

These are not gourmet delicacies. They’re not something one even admits to eating these days. And to be fair, they are treats, not my steady diet (which runs more along vegetable lines).

But they are tasty and lacking in pretension. You know where you stand with them. The world is crazy these days. Bring on the comfort foods!

Slower Soundtrack

Slower Soundtrack

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Today’s late post is my little birthday protest: because it cannot possibly be May 31, 2017. It was just May 31, 2016.

But it is that day, I know, and has been 365 days since the last one. So nothing to do but accept it graciously and gratefully. Which I do. Really. Besides, it’s a most luscious May 31. No rain so far (fingers crossed) and full-on summer with air that knows its mind and the roar of motorized lawn implements in the background.

A couple hours ago I heard the Overture to William Tell on the radio. Is this my soundtrack, I wondered: a madcap frolic, a frenetic dash from point A to point B? It probably is. What I need this year is a slower soundtrack. Nothing too slow or mournful, but definitely something a little less rushed and crazy.

That’s my birthday resolution, my new year’s mantra. Find a slower soundtrack … and find it fast.

Mountain Light

Mountain Light

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Days of rain and clouds broke up yesterday just as we were leaving the West Virginia mountains, and I got to see light from all angles and perspectives: the way it pooled on roads and hillsides. How it filtered through leaves.

Here it is in the woods and on the trees.

And high up in the canopy.