Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

Schuylkill River Walk

Schuylkill River Walk

Comments 0 Comment

The meeting ended a few hours before the Northeast Regional left 30th Street Station so I had enough time to stroll from my West Philly hotel, down Chestnut to 34th, then Spruce, then across the Schuylkill to the walk that runs beside it.

It was Friday afternoon, sun had broken through the clouds, and the temperature was about 70. I joined the baby-stroller-joggers, cyclists, skateboarders and others heading north along the river.

I almost went to the Barnes Museum — one of the Philadelphia’s new premier attractions — but I like to think that in walking we get a glimpse of the true city, the one that exists beneath the attractions.

There were glimpses of skyline with tall grasses in the foreground, there was the sun striking the water; there were all the people and conversations. There was, above all, the joy of moving through space, a space new to me, thrilling in its unknowns.

Up the Northeast Corridor

Up the Northeast Corridor

Comments 0 Comment

Yesterday I climbed aboard the Northeast Regional to travel up to a meeting in Philadelphia. On the way out of town, I spotted a familiar landmark of northeast D.C., the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. I used to work next door to the basilica, so I always look for it when I can. Its rotunda and its Marian blue always bring a pang of nostalgia.

I planned to review notes and read on the train. Instead I almost instantly fell asleep. Train travel does that to me, the rocking motion, the blurred scenery, the clickety-clack.

Let’s make a deal, said my seat mate. Whoever is awake will let the other know we’re in Philadelphia. (He had told me when he sat down that he was getting off there, too.) But as it turned out, we were both awake, and he kindly pointed the way to Market Street as we left the station.

The sun was low in the sky when I started walking to the hotel, but the streets were full of students, and I was on my own in a big city.

Walking Key Bridge

Walking Key Bridge

Comments 0 Comment

On Friday I had reason to visit Georgetown’s main campus — or, rather, an office building 20 minutes away from it. Though I work at Georgetown’s law school, I seldom visit the rest of the campus, what’s fondly called the Hilltop.

It’s a beautiful spot, perched above the Potomac and set apart from the rest of the city. But it’s not easy to reach by Metro.  My favorite way to go, though most would say the most arduous, is to get off in Virgina at the Roslyn Station, wend my way through downtown Arlington and then stroll across the Key Bridge.

Friday’s weather was brisk. I wore a jacket and scarf. I considered gloves. But none of this mattered once I started across the span. There are the spires of Healy Hall ahead, and beside the campus the narrow, treed lanes of a much older city. Below is the Potomac, and, if you’re lucky, a crew team skimming across it. The bridge is clogged with trucks and cars and bikes. All is movement and brightness and wind.

And once in the District, there is an impossibly steep hill to climb. They don’t call it the Hilltop for nothing. Motion, sunshine, new vistas — my heart was lighter than it had been in days. And all because I walked Key Bridge.

New Hour, New World

New Hour, New World

Comments 0 Comment

Yesterday I left the office, walked out the door and saw a sky lit from within, clouds shimmering with light and a flock of birds swooping in and out of sight.

It was a different hour, a different light, made possible by the time change. And while it means I leave and return home in darkness, it also means that my walk to Metro takes me by flaming trees, slanting sun and illuminated office windows that reveal what’s inside. Plants and posters, an American flag.

It was a new hour — and because of that — a new world.

Lamplit Afternoon

Lamplit Afternoon

Comments 0 Comment

This weekend I bought a lampshade. It’s for the big standing lamp in the living room, an ancient item rejiggered. “Bring your old shade with you,” said the sign in the store, as I made my way over to what seemed an impossibly large array of shades.

Of course I didn’t do this. I had measurements, but I’d forgotten how many styles of lampshades there are: the empire, hexagon, bell, drum or pagoda. I spent close to a half an hour in that shop, lifting shades from their spot on the shelf, measuring the top diameter and the bottom diameter, the height from base to crown.

The one I finally chose lacks the old-world lines of its predecessor, but it fits and its lining is secure — unlike the old shade with its renegade lining.  And when I turned on the lamp yesterday — not at night but in the afternoon, thanks to our return to standard time — I was glad to be entering this season of early darkness with well-filtered illumination.

Finding Francis

Finding Francis

Comments 0 Comment

It’s not as if I had lost him, or didn’t know about him at all. But there was a bit of the miraculous in what happened yesterday.

I was facing a difficult situation at work, a delicate, pretending-like-everything-is-okay-but-it’s-really-not situation. And that, on top of the grief and worry, was making for some desperate hours. I needed quick relief, an instant infusion of calmness and strength. So for some reason — I’m not sure why — I googled a 16th-century saint, Francis de Sales.

This is not St. Francis of the Franciscans, namesake of Pope Francis. This is the other Francis. I know about him because my parish priests are of his order, the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales, and his writings are sometimes reprinted in the bulletin.

Still, googling saints is not something I do in times of trouble. I’m more likely to pace or bite my nails. Nevertheless, the impulse was so strong that it was like reaching for Motrin when I feel a headache coming on. There was the near certain promise of relief. I knew this was what I was supposed to do.

So I found this: “Do not lose your inner peace for anything whatsoever, even if your whole world seems upset.” And this: “Have patience with all things but chiefly have patience with yourself.” And this: “The same everlasting Father who cares for you today will care for you tomorrow and every day. Either he will shield you from suffering or give you unfailing peace to bear it. Be at peace then and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginings.”

Yesterday I found Francis when I needed him the most.

Eye of Storm?

Eye of Storm?

Comments 0 Comment

Sometimes life decides to throw a lot of things at you at once. Work woes on top of grieving on top of other stuff.

I’m using the word “decides” lightly, of course, and with some irony. Life hasn’t “decided” anything. Life is just happening. So how do  I handle the concerns, the worries, the to-dos? How do I  control the uncontrollable?

What I’m hoping for is the eye of the storm. I’ve been blown around and buffeted for weeks now, so it has to be here somewhere. I don’t even expect the storm to be over. I just want a break from it.

Maybe if I think small like this, not ask for too much, the way will be clearer, the passing smooth. All I’m asking for is a patch of sunlight in the clouds, the calm air to catch my breath.

Muted Palette

Muted Palette

Comments 0 Comment

At the end of the street, a maple is blazing. And on Monday’s drive through the mountains, hillsides were studies in russet and gold.

On the whole, though, it’s been a muted palette this autumn. Or maybe my vision is clouded this year.

It’s difficult sometimes to know where the interior weather ends and the exterior weather begins.

Events on the Wing

Events on the Wing

Comments 0 Comment

If a journal is to have any value either for the writer or any potential
reader, the writer must be able to be objective about what he
experiences on the pulse. For the whole point of a journal is this
seizing events on the wing. Yet the substance will come not from narration but from the examination of experience, an attempt, at least, to reduce it to essence.  — May Sarton, The House by the Sea

I think about this as I remember the cemetery, the flag half mast, a large hawk circling in the leaden sky. There was a bank of autumn color from one stand of trees. Otherwise, the white stones and green grass made for a frightful symmetry.

Beyond the boundaries, cattle grazed, and  hills rolled on in the distance. As the priest said the ancient prayers, my eyes looked down at the flower petals under foot, one white, one yellow.

A peaceful place. A resting place. The sun broke through the clouds just as the burial was complete. 

Turning East

Turning East

Comments 0 Comment

Nighttime lingers here on the western edge of Eastern Daylight Time. It is dark until 8. Great light for a writer, at least this one, who finds the dim, still, early morning hours the best ones for creative pursuits. Add the mournful whistle of a freight train — which sounds here once an hour or more — and the picture is complete.

So I pause for a moment before turning east and moving on. I pause in this house I know and love so well. Pause with the boxes of Mom’s clothes and papers that I’m taking back to Virginia. Pause with the solemnity of what I’ve been doing, what I must continue to do.

Morning email brings messages from friends, words of support and love. How lucky I am to have them. How could I do this without them?