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Author: Anne Cassidy

The Vibration

The Vibration

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Some lines of poetry pop up often in my interior monologue. These are from high school, when I first read Edgar Lee Masters’ “Spoon River Anthology.”

“The earth keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.”

The poem is about Fiddler Jones, whose crops languished while he played music at every party and dance. He ended up with a “broken fiddle, a broken laugh, a thousand memories and not a single regret.” It is the epitaph of one who chose the artistic life, or one, I should say, whose artistic life was  chosen for him:

“And if the people find you can fiddle
Why fiddle you must for all your life.”

Such is not my fate. No one is dragging me away from press releases to write the Great American Essay. But I do wake up with internal music, a vague but pulsing beat. It says hurry up, get in, get busy. And on days that propel me from bed directly to the office — without even a quiet moment to sip tea and write my post in a dark, quiet living room — this is how I feel: that the earth has kept some vibration going while I was asleep and  when it grew too strong it woke me up.

The vibration is not artistry calling. It is duty calling. I have been reduced to to-do’s. How to change the vibration? That’s what I’m wondering now.

Circle of Laundry

Circle of Laundry

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On Saturday I found myself alone in the house with Claire’s laundry. She wanted to run out while it was in process, so I took over while she was gone.

Laundry is not a task I mind. In fact, folding it can be vaguely Zen-like: the warmth of towels hot from the dryer, the scent of fabric-softener sheets rising from them.  And, because it had been so long since I folded my middle girl’s shirts and tights and sweaters, I savored this chance to help her out. I noted with pleasure how well she had begun the task, the carefully sorted piles of darks and lights.

I couldn’t help but think back to a time when I was washing and drying her baby clothes, the little gowns and onesies, many of them hand-me-downs. How long ago that was, yet how close it seemed. How strong is the chain of caring that passes from heart to hand.

For the last load I threw in a t-shirt and sweatshirt of my own, and before she left that night, Claire handed them to me — clean and fragrant.

She had folded my clothes just as I folded hers. It may not be the circle of life, nothing that grandiose. Let’s just call it the circle of laundry.

Thinking Ahead

Thinking Ahead

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Yesterday was spent almost entirely inside. A rainy day, the tree still up (a state of affairs that will  end today), laundry chugging away in the basement, a casserole simmering in the oven.

A calm, inward-focused day was the perfect antidote to a long, outward-focused week.

But already I feel the gears groan into action for tomorrow’s workday: answering email, sketching the week’s to-do list, planning quick dinners and what I’ll need to make them before I dash to the grocery store.

What was once a day of rest is now a day of preparation.

Trajectories

Trajectories

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It’s the first of the year, time of arrivals and departures, of the two-faced Janus, looking back into the past and forward into the future.

Here in the office there are also arrivals and departures. Some are joyful, others less so. I think about a couple of people who will be moving to our suite before retirement. These changes fall into the “not with a bang but a whimper” category. People close to quitting who, if they’d had their druthers, may not have chosen to spend their final months here.

We can’t all go out on a high note. Which is why I’ve been thinking about trajectories lately, what kinds of movements matter. I’ve seen enough of the work world, with its accolades and its disappointments, to put my faith in a less visible measure.

It’s the spiritual trajectory that matters most, I think, the one that takes into account all our efforts and attempts, the dollar we slip into a beggar’s hand, the colleague we forgive, the child we comfort — and the times we fail to do these things, too. The journey that underlies all others, our passage through the passages of life.

Why Memoir?

Why Memoir?

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Over the last week I’ve come face to face with my reading habits. I ripped right through In a Dark Wood: A Memoir of Grief by Joseph Luzzi. On its heels, Susan Cheever’s Note in a Bottle. I’m just starting Mary Karr’s Lit.

This is not a discussion of  individual books so much as what they have in common: the memoir form.

It could be that I read memoir because I write memoir — or at least memoirish. I’ve kept a journal since I was 16. I’ve written this blog for almost six years.

But I may also read memoir because we live in a confessional age, one in which the examined self is deemed more interesting than the fictional character. If that is true — and there’s much evidence that it is — then does it flow from a dearth of imagination, a surfeit of self-absorption or a quest for understanding?

This is not a new question and my thoughts here are amateurish ones, but it’s that last reason that resonates most. There are more and more of us sharing this planet, yet we know and understand each other less and less. Perhaps the humanity implicit in memoir promises relief.  If we can know and understand another, there is hope for us all.

Epiphany!

Epiphany!

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I was all set to write about Epiphany, one of my favorite holidays. Day of discovery and adoration. The magi at the stable. And also of epiphany, one of my favorite feelings, the sudden revelation, the aha moment, the emergence of the forest from the trees.

I was helped along by a real surprise, a tree of scarves. Farther along, scarves draped over banisters and railings. On each scarf a blue tag: If you’re cold take this scarf. Chase the Chill D.C.

Looked it up, found the page and the mission, saw the skeins of yarn from which some scarves were made. Learned that the “scarf bombing” was long planned for this day, that many fingers flew to bring it about.

A sometime crocheter, I could feel the needles in my grasp, imagine the warm hearts and hands of the knitters. A sudden revelation, an aha moment. All of that and more.

Lost and Found

Lost and Found

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First days back after long vacations are never easy. Mine involved an overwhelming amount of work, a long and tedious commute and, just for an extra dollop of misery, the coldest temps we’ve had all winter. It was 13 this morning with a brisk wind making it feel more frigid.

But as I was pushing my way out of the Metro Station yesterday, a young man tapped me on the shoulder. He was holding the necklace that I thought until that moment was around my neck. It’s a special one because Claire gave it to me, and it must have slipped off as I tightened my scarf. He didn’t have to do that. The pendant could easily have been picked up and pocketed.

As I was putting the necklace away last night, thrilled to have it safely home, I next reached up to take off my earrings and discovered … one of them was missing too. That was less concerning. The necklace is more important; it’s an even trade, I said to myself.

But this morning as I was putting on my coat, the missing earring showed up, too. It must have gotten caught in the collar.

You might think that I would be wearing no jewelry at all today. But you would be wrong. Once again, I’m casting my fate to the winds and to the good intentions of those around around me. It’s a risk worth taking!

Eagle in Flight

Eagle in Flight

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I knew at once it was something different: longer, stronger, taking up more of the sky.  Broad wings, white head and tail with a supple, muscular stroke. It was over my head and beyond me before I had a good glimpse, but I knew at once this was no hawk.

In a few wing beats it was two houses away, hundreds of feet above me. With shaded eyes I watched it soar out of sight. Surely it was an eagle. I knew of nothing else that would be that imposing, that confident in the sky.

No more than two minutes later the bird was above me once again. It must have turned left at the woods and circled round. Now I had a clearer look, could observe the long, steady flap of those black wings, could be sure that the head was white. Though it was no doubt looking for food, it was calm and unhurried — out for the avian version of a Sunday drive.

I have seen eagles at the lake, at the beach and on a trip to Alaska. But never before had I seen one over the house. It was a good way to usher in the new year, glimpsing such a wild thing in flight. I thought of a passage from Henry Beston’s Outermost House, describing a flock of swans: “Their passing was more than music, and from their wings descended the old loveliness of earth which both affirms and heals.”

Photo:  AnimalFactsGuide.com

Day Two

Day Two

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When faced with a few days of uninterrupted time I sometimes panic. I take a walk, go to the movies, make a call.

Distraction is my currency. I live with it; sometimes on it (sad to say). And the prospect of giving it up is enough to make me create unnecessary distractions of my own.

The job, the commute, the tasks of daily living — these are necessary. Endless tidying and Googling are not.

But eventually I come around, assisted by a pen and paper, an empty screen, a good book.

That is what happened yesterday into today. I read a book (more on that in a future post). I wrote pages in my journal — enough to complete one blank book, so that (I admit a tad sheepishly and obsessively) I could begin a new one on January 1. And I still had time to spend in idle thought.

It’s a quiet way to see in the new year, quiet and necessary.

Day One

Day One

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The first day was a late one, so this post is late, too. But I’m determined to push “publish” while it’s still light outside.

It’s a cold and cloudy start to 2016, a day that could actually be called wintry after so many warm ones. The sun, still timid, is lost in the clouds. The trees arch bravely over a newly cleared backyard. 

I’ve spent hours reading and writing and thinking about this new year, what it might offer, how I might shape it. And now, I’ll do what I usually do when I’ve thought too much: I’ll lace up my shoes, grab my iPod and take to the streets. A walk — that’s what will make this first day right.