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Author: Anne Cassidy

Sunday To-Do List

Sunday To-Do List

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Yesterday was for catching up: on walks, laundry, sleep, the sound of my children’s voices. One from Africa, where it was just dark and couscous was on the stove top. Another from Fairfax, back home after a long shift at a second job. And still another from just upstairs, which can be the longest distance of all but thankfully was not this time.

Sundays are often like this, touching base with the people I love. But after a vacation I remember to include myself in this number.

I cross some chores off the list but then find time to plop in the hammock and read the paper. I dose off, rally, focus once again on the book review, then put it aside entirely to listen to the insects and watch the leaves wag in the early evening light.

A Thicket

A Thicket

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This summer, in an excess of exuberance or just poor planning I bought three cherry tomato plants and situated them in pots on the deck. This is where I’ve put them the last few years, but I failed to realize how mature — and how greedy for space — the climbing rose had become. The result is a tangled mess of vines — roses among the thorns among the tomatoes.

I like this wild, uninhibited look but I’m not sure the plants do. They seem peeved and confused, wanting more space and light than they’ve been given. Tomato yield is down and the roses look peaked in their second bloom.

So already I have plans for next year. Extending the pergola for the climbing rose. Finding a sunny corner of the yard (growing ever less shady thanks to the dying oaks) for the tomatoes, maybe throwing in a pepper plant or two. A space for each plant — and each plant in its space.

Questions Without Answers

Questions Without Answers

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First work-at-home day in weeks. I sit on a cool deck, morning air in my lungs. I’m wearing a sweatshirt and thinking about when to squeeze in a walk. A cup of hot tea beside me; a bag of work at my feet.

A mental checklist interrupts the peace. Something is due today. Oh, that’s right: a handout for a panel discussion I’m moderating in two weeks, people I need to pester.

I think about how much of my job involves pestering. Far too much of it, I decide. I think about my job itself and how it’s changing — in two weeks my boss is leaving and I’ll be doing her job as well as mine.

Am I up to the challenge? What will happen to calm writing time, to sitting-on-the-deck-and-thinking time?

The weather will take care of some of this. Already the goldfinch are gone, along with the coneflowers that attracted them. I hear a strange new bird call that sounds like a squawking horn. A visitor passing through, no doubt.

As for the rest of the adjustment, only time will tell.

The Fiber of our Lives

The Fiber of our Lives

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How Life Unfolds is the name of a new ad campaign waged by the paper industry. I read about it in the newspaper (printed on newsprint — key point) a couple weeks ago.

It’s no secret that I’m a big believer in paper. I write about it occasionally (albeit in electronic posts on this blog!) and use it everyday. I scribble in an unlined paper journal, read actual books, make lists on scratch pads and send mail that requires stamps.

At the office I must periodically make a case to keep the magazine I edit in print. I have a list of arguments. For one thing, people aren’t likely to look for their alumni magazine online, so why go to the trouble of putting it together if no one sees it. Second, ink-on-paper is a durable emissary. It hangs around for years spreading the university’s good will — and sometimes inspiring alumni to write checks and mail them off in the paper envelopes provided for just such a purpose.

All of which may explain why I cringe at the paper industry’s website. “How paper helps you learn.” “Letters from camp are still a treasured tradition.” “Back to school report: How paper gives you a leg up on learning.”

If the paper industry needs a press campaign it must be worse off than I think. And in fact, a Washington Post article tells me that the copy- and writing-paper market has dropped by more than a third.

Maybe paper will go the way of cotton (“the fiber of our lives”) and become an exclusive commodity. This is what I hope for. It’s better than extinction.

A.M. and P.M.

A.M. and P.M.

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Morning on Metro, waiting for a train, the line of commuters stretches to infinity. All of them must leave the bus or park the car, file into the station, take a seat (if there is one) and occupy themselves for 30 or so minutes. It’s the numbing life of regularity that is unfortunately required for much of anything to get done.

Evening on Metro, a sudden shower douses us as we exit the train into a sunny afternoon. I simultaneously open my umbrella and put on my sunglasses. Then I trudge with the masses up the escalator, through the turnstile and toward my car. But then I remember to look. Surely it’s possible. And yes, it’s true. A rainbow. Just when we needed it most.

Return

Return

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Back home in the early morning light, I wake automatically at my near-accustomed hour. Gone is the beach vibe and the beach pace. I think about how different it is to have nothing to do and nowhere to go, to live beyond schedules.

And how shocking it is to move from one world to another. From beach walks and languor to office and checklists.

Luckily I’ve had help in this endeavor. Flying home catapults the relaxed vacationer headlong into tightly parceled time. Only worse than that — it’s tightly parceled airline time. Hurry up and wait. A parody of real life, which makes the return of schedules a comfort in comparison.

Metro is in my future; the beach is in my heart.

After the Storm

After the Storm

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A dousing overnight, a sudden storm that flooded the street in front of my motel. This morning I dodged puddles on the beach, noticed the enlarged pools and lagoons that came in the wake of a large tide and persistent rain.

A beach is always the same and always different, shaping and reshaping itself from day to day, wave to wave.

Maybe that’s the source of its power. Maybe that’s what gives us stillness — the presence of constant change and motion in a form we can understand and enjoy.

Elemental Motions

Elemental Motions

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My beach walk these last few days has taken me along a stretch of strand that floods in high tide.

Yesterday I was early enough that I had to remove my shoes and pass through the area barefoot. Today I went later and could dodge the waves.

But to do that meant becoming a wave-watcher, noticing the pace of the surf, its intake and outflow, its rhythm which is no less than the rhythm of the earth and moon.

Being on a beach brings elemental motions to mind.

The Sentry

The Sentry

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This little guy is off duty here but I have caught him (or one of his brethren) sitting in front of a house I pass on the way to the beach, looking for all the world like he’s guarding the place. He glances to the left and right, he moves his head up and down. He is alert and ready to scamper. What he would do to combat an intruder I have no idea. But … he’s ready.

Chameleons are known for their changeability, of course, and why not variation of role as well as color? A playful mood, a cautious mood, a dutiful mood.

Here he is hanging around the boards of a deck, perhaps contemplating his next change of skin.

Striped Shadows

Striped Shadows

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Here in the subtropics the palm trees shade you but the shadow they give is not solid but porous.

It doesn’t provide the same drop in temperature as do the big deciduous trees of home, but it is beautiful to observe and —if possible — photograph.

Striped shadows, delicate designs, green fronds waving — shade as a fluid, chancy, sometime thing.