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Author: Anne Cassidy

Big Magic

Big Magic

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I picked up Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic at the library this weekend. It’s new enough that I was surprised to see it — and I snapped it up, even though it’s a 14-day-only, no-renewal book.

When it comes to books that suddenly appear on library shelves long before I would ever expect to see them (I just read a review a few weeks ago), I suspect providence at work. Why this book? Why now?

Big Magic is about the joys of living the creative life and the need to persist in it despite all obstacles. It’s not a perfect book — it’s more pep talk than anything else — but it’s honest and encouraging and bighearted. And it makes some important points about finishing projects (better to be a “deeply disciplined half-ass” than a lazy perfectionist) and why it’s unwise to give up the day job (it would put too great a burden on the writing, sculpting, cello-playing or other creative impulse that must be pursued with lightness).

As I struggle to balance family responsibilities with a new set of duties in my day job, as I think about what I can give up to make this all work, I realize one thing that can’t go is this blog.

It’s as close to “big magic” as I can get these days.

Somewhere …

Somewhere …

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I drove in from the east today, a feeling I always liken to being on the other side of the looking glass — or the rainbow.

And as if on cue, the few drops sprinkling us on the vast, parking lot of a D.C. highway did whatever it is they must do to form a rainbow. And we work-weary, week-weary commuters were treated to a celestial show.

In the Bible, God sends Noah a rainbow as a token of His promise never again to destroy the world by water. But I took today’s rainbow as a reminder that there are forces beyond the ones we see and hear that will have their way with us.

Sometimes they batter us, sometimes they buoy us. But they are always there.

Garden in Autumn

Garden in Autumn

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Yesterday I took a midday walk in balmy D.C. The trees were turning enough to remind me it’s fall and not late summer. The air was that way, too. Warmth without weight, which meant I kept taking off my sweater and putting it back on again.

In the botanical gardens a group of schoolchildren played on the lawn. They were clad in red t-shirts, and were running back and forth, panting and laughing, following the instructions of their teacher. “O.K. This time I want you to find a partner and run together.”

A few steps away was the rose garden. I sniffed around for the most aromatic flowers and found a couple that made me inhale long and deep.

Apart from the roses’ pinks and yellows, the rest of the autumn garden palette was a muted one: lavender asters, russet leaves and the fuzzy fronds of tall grasses.  It was a faded look, mellow and complete.

Leaning Tower of Books

Leaning Tower of Books

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Thinking about the books and magazines I grew up with — and the ones my children did, too. Bookcases stuffed full,  nightstands spilling over, newspapers strewn across the kitchen table. My grandfather had a reading stand so he could prop up the paper and scan it as he had breakfast.

Reading is a solitary act with social potential — especially, I think, when the written word is on paper and more easily shared. When kids see their parents reading they are more likely to read themselves. But what happens when the words are on a device, ephemeral and inconstant?

I guess it makes the kids want the device, and this is undeniably true. But how do we measure the effect of the device itself, and the fact that it can be everything — book, magazine, newspaper? How does this change the reading equation?

There are answers here — and one day we will know them.

Retracing My Steps

Retracing My Steps

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My office key is lost. It must have slipped off the new lanyard I picked up yesterday. A lanyard that apparently didn’t fasten properly.

Meanwhile, I have walked up and down hallways and sidewalks and garage corridors, retracing my steps. What a concept — retracing one’s steps. Going back over what was done before. Ultimate inefficiency.

Or is it? Perhaps a mindfulness exercise could consist of just this practice, walking back over what I walked before, looking for what wasn’t seen previously, realizing that instead of being present in the moment of walking, I was actually daydreaming, fretting, letting the scenery pass in a blur.

As it turns out, I did find something. Not my key but a colleague’s identification card. If I found her card, maybe she — or someone else — found my key. And in this sideways, sliding, inefficient way, we will all be rescued somehow.

(This photo from outside Medora, North Dakota, has no relevance to retracing my steps. I’ve just been wanting to use it.)

Drowned Roses

Drowned Roses

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The living is easy for first-bloom roses. Born in late May, days
past the last frost-possible day, they inherit late evenings, balmy air and no Japanese beetles. They can look forward to a long,
splendid life. (That’s in rose years of course.)

 But second-bloom roses emerge when the sun tilts lower in the sky, when the nights become
nippy, and — this year, at least — when autumn rains mat the grass and rattle limbs loose from the tall oaks.

They may not always hold their heads up like their spring brethren. But they should. Theirs is the harder lot.  Second-bloom roses are the bravest.

Sounds and Comforts

Sounds and Comforts

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It’s 48 degrees outside and 65 in the house. I have nothing I have to do today, no place I have to go. I’m hoping the rain slacks off enough to take a long, brisk walk. It’s been a while since I’ve contemplated the passing landscape with hands tucked up into my sleeves.

Until then, I’m enjoying the quiet morning, the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the cuckoo clock the only sounds I hear. Piles of books and papers on the coffee table, a pot of tea brewing in the kitchen.

Perhaps the reason we appreciate the everyday more as we grow older is because we have learned how uncommon it can be. Days when nothing is expected of us. The comforts of home.

Battening Down

Battening Down

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Actually, I have done little of this. The rocking chairs are inside and the rest of the deck furniture is too heavy to blow away.

I’ll collect some extra tap water tonight, keep it around in pitchers and bowls. And I’ll check the basement frequently to see if rain is seeping in.

Beyond that I’m planning to clean, organize and watch movies.

It’s blizzard mode, only with rain instead of snow.

Pushing “Publish”

Pushing “Publish”

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You know you are busy when you haven’t heard that a hurricane is heading your way. And more to the point, you know you are busy when you fail to write a blog post two weekdays in a row.

But when one of those days consists of driving from Lexington, Kentucky, to Washington, D.C., working for five hours and then driving home in torrential rain — well, that doesn’t count. And when you start behind the next day because you had to get a little sleep — well, that doesn’t count either.

Not that any of this “counts,” of course. All of it is self-imposed. My own schedule, my own project. But it is a project of the heart, and as such must be given its due.

So today I’m taking no chances. It is barely 5:30 a.m. I’m pushing the “publish” key.

Eclipse

Eclipse

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I missed the moon in its blood-red rising. By the time I caught up with the orb, it was higher in the sky. This is better than I anticipated. With cloud cover for most of the day, it was unlikely I’d see much of the moon at all.

But the clouds provided a soft-focus backdrop and the moon glowed brighter than I had seen it shine in a long time.

I think the eclipse had already begun when I took this shot. The moon was just starting to disappear — though behind clouds or earth’s shadow — or only in my own imagination — I could not tell.