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Author: Anne Cassidy

An Opening

An Opening

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I noticed it last week — a break in the fence, right at the place I used to scale it. An absence, a window, an opening. How long have I waited for this break? Or, at the very least, for a stile across the fence?

At first, I thought I was seeing things, but I when I walked up to investigate, I noticed the discarded planks. Will there be a gate here someday, to preserve the opening, or will it once again be fenced?

Taking no chances, I strode through it, avoiding the longer and more circuitous route to the Franklin Farm meadow that I’ve taken ever since I stopped climbing fences.

It seemed a fortuitous New Year’s omen. An opening. An invitation. I embraced it.

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem

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I thought of this phrase all day yesterday, an unseasonably warm one. It popped into my head when I stepped out the door in the morning and when I was walking a trail in the afternoon. And then, in the evening, I met someone who had it tattooed on her wrist.

The message was clear. Carpe diem: seize the day. In the film “The Dead Poet’s Society” the teacher played by Robin Williams delivers it as a command. He shows his students photographs of their predecessors, then in their prime, but lost to war. “Food for worms now, boys,” he tells his wide-eyed students. “Carpe diem. Seize the day.” And so they do, with mixed results.

Today is a carpe diem day too, with temperatures in the 50s. The warmth may be fleeting. Make the most of it. Seize the day.

(A box of chocolates. Another way to seize the day.)

The World Outside

The World Outside

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A thaw has begun. Today is warm and damp with bird song in the air. Yesterday, I spotted a flock of robins in the yard next door. When I stepped outside to bounce on the trampoline it felt like another world. And in fact it was another world: the world outside.

For the last several weeks, cold temperatures and seasonal duties have kept me inside. I had almost forgotten about the world outside with its fox and deer. I had definitely forgotten about the hawk, who swooped low and lean across the yard and perched directly above me.

I told him not to get any ideas. I’ve tangled with him before and have a healthy respect for raptors. In time, he realized I was not what he wanted and flew away.

Meanwhile, I listened and bounced. I noted how tall the ornamental grasses have grown, and how full the hollies. It was cloudy with a tinge of pink on the western horizon. How good it felt to be back again in the world outside.

(View from the trampoline)

Small Epiphanies

Small Epiphanies

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It’s a day to celebrate not just the Magi’s visit to the baby Jesus but all epiphanies, the revelations and aha moments that keep life interesting. How to define the aha moment? I do it liberally.

Take yesterday. I was walking to an appointment at an eye doctor’s office four miles away. I’d never done this before but I was fairly sure I could access the building by stepping from the sidewalk into the multi-level parking lot. It was a bit of a gamble, because if I couldn’t, I was facing a long detour, but I left myself enough time to make it work.

The first aha moment was the cold wind from the south, but that just hastened my pace. The next was realizing that I could take off my solar-powered watch and hold it in my gloved hand during the hour-long stroll, giving it a good charge. (It’s an old timepiece and charging it is tougher in the winter, since it’s often tucked up under a sweater.)

When I reached my destination, not only was the parking lot accessible, but a tiny trail led me there. Ten years of driving to this office for annual visits, and I finally walked there. It took most of an hour but I could do it. An aha moment for sure.

Three epiphanies — small ones, to be sure, but lovely just the same.

(A single forsythia flower blooms in January: another aha moment.)

Backroads and Byways

Backroads and Byways

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A book was waiting for me, one that had been in my holds queue for a few weeks. Entering the library on a chilly January afternoon, I decided to stay a while and browse the new nonfiction.

New nonfiction is a relative term at the Reston branch of the Fairfax County Library. But the books are free, so I knew I’d find something of interest — and I did. Abundance, by Ezra Klein and Derek Thomson, was published a year ago and has been tempting me ever since. I’ll plunge into that soon.

But more attuned to the tenor of the times (these first days of 2026, that is) was finding a new edition of Backroads and Byways of Virginia. It’s full of journeys through the commonwealth, from the Great Dismal Swamp to Grayson Highlands.

Is it just what happens to wanderlust when it’s bottled up for a few weeks, or some other impulse … but I want to take every one of these trips! To explore Route 11, the “Valley Pike,” hop a mail boat to Tangier Island, and maybe, finally, visit Appomattox Courthouse.

I’ve lived in Virginia for decades, but have barely explored it. Time to change that.

(A byway near Woodstock.)

Cleaning Up

Cleaning Up

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What is this impulse that never fails to strike me at the beginning of every new year? It’s not just for everyday tidying but for deeper-cleaning and reorganizing.

Of course, it stands to reason that a new year would cry out for better organization. Out with the old; in with the new. One more feeble attempt to control the environment. But I wish this desire wasn’t so strong. I don’t really want to spend time today figuring out a better place to store the waffle-maker, or decluttering the outside of the refrigerator.

So I’m fighting it the best way I know how. With words. Writing about the impulse to clean rather than actually doing it.

Let’s see how long this lasts!

(A Williamsburg shop in need of an 18th-century tidy-up.)

Years of Hope

Years of Hope

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The ink isn’t dry yet on this new year. It’s still whatever we want it to be. A good time to write about it then. It absolves this blogger from writing about it tomorrow, also known as today.

Another reason to write: It’s a little too early to go to bed. One must spend at least a little time with this new year before closing eyes on it.

As 2026 begins, the Holy Year of Hope comes to an end. On January 6, Pope Leo will close the holy door of Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome, ending the observance that Pope Francis kicked off with these words: “In the heart of each person, hope dwells as the desire and expectation of good things to come, despite our not knowing what the future may bring.” 

Not a bad way to begin 2026. May all new years be years of hope.

A Year in Six Months

A Year in Six Months

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Today, we come to the last day of the year, a day that inspires both retrospection and awe. I’m thinking of the awe part right now. Of the fact that, in what seems like six or at the very most nine months time, an entire year has passed.

How to savor these days that pass so quickly, to empty them to the dregs, to leave behind the worries that cloud them. I turn to a book that made an impression when I read it early last year, enough of an impression that when asked my favorite book of 2025, this is the one I picked. (Weirdly, I don’t seem to have written about it here.)

In Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, Oliver Burkeman reminds us that “the trouble with attempting to master your time, it turns out, is that time ends up mastering you.” It’s when we’re in a flow state, practicing our art, or caring for a newborn, that time drops away.

This isn’t some touchy-feely book about losing one’s self in the moment, though. Instead, it’s a cold-eyed look at how much time we really have, about 4,000 weeks, give or take a few.

This is a philosophical tract more than a “how to” book. When we accept the finiteness of our time on earth, we pick out a few important tasks and concentrate on them.

For some strange reason, I find this comforting — especially on the last day of a very full year.

Tree Time

Tree Time

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These are days to savor, when holiday duties are mostly completed and holiday decorations mostly intact. We put up the tree 16 days ago so it’s still supple and green. In fact, we added new ornaments to it on Sunday.

This tree grew up on a sunny slope in southwestern Virginia. We bought it at a lot only 10 minutes drive from home. It’s been our fallback since the farm where we chopped down our tree for years became so busy that we had to wait in line to get into the place.

This tree is professionally cut and lovingly tended. (I can say this with confidence after meeting several members of the farm family that raised it.) It was lovingly, if hastily decorated. And now, it’s holding court. I sit in front of it to read, write and watch a movie on my laptop. It’s tree time!

(Photo: Matt Bullen)

Dulles Departure

Dulles Departure

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Six days ago, on Christmas Eve, I woke up early and drove to Dulles Airport. I arrived with an empty car and left with a full one. Today, I did just the opposite.

Dulles was once again cheerful, aglow with holiday lights. But I approached it with that familiar thud in the heart that accompanies the leave-taking of loved ones.

We pulled up to the departures deck and I parked quickly, pulled out the luggage and hugged my daughter and son-in-law goodbye. I watched them as long as I could, until they vanished into the building that looks like it, too, is ready to take flight.