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Author: Anne Cassidy

Warm Morning

Warm Morning

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Sixty-two when I woke up, the first warm morning in a while. Taste of rain in the air. A breeze that stirs the ornamental grass and clatters the wind chimes.

There is warmth that builds steadily through the hours, from a chill sunrise to a parched afternoon. And then there is warmth given from the start, a gift to utilize or to squander.

Today we have the latter — and it brings a coziness to the house. We’re here already, no need to strive, to be hopeful about the angle of the sun or the tilt of the wind.

It’s the difference between a day that grows into itself and one that starts off fully formed, has everything to lose.

This, of course, assumes warmth to be desirable, which is not always the case. But on this April 3, after this February and this March, it most certainly is.

Pain and Perspective

Pain and Perspective

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Today I think of Emily Dickinson’s line, “After great pain a formal feeling comes.” It was “only” a toothache, but for last two days it brought me great pain. And though I have not exactly experienced the formal feeling that Dickinson felt in its wake, I have felt relief at the return of normal sensations.

What little thinking I could do when in its throes, I pondered what it would be like to live always in such misery. Some people do. Can we not all forgive them for ending it?

Great pain brushes small concerns aside. It is both a great equalizer and a great perspective-bringer. None of us asks for it. But it’s a part of life, and from time to time, we are forced to remember that.

Just a Walk Around the Block

Just a Walk Around the Block

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Had to mail a package yesterday at lunchtime, and though I didn’t have long I thought I would stroll for a few minutes before returning to my desk.

I walked east toward the Capitol, all swathed in scaffolding (look closely; you can see a worker in a day-glo yellow jacket).

Then behind it past the Supreme Court and Library of Congress, then in front of it where I snapped this shot before heading back down First Street to my office.

Not bad for a walk around the block!

Earthbound

Earthbound

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The Udvar-Hazy Air and Space Museum was a spur-of-the-moment decision, a way to fill the hour between Georgetown and Dulles Airport. I hadn’t been there for years — since long before the …

and the …

arrived there. And I was totally unprepared to have my eyes well up. I’m getting emotional about airplanes? Come on!

But the Discovery was so battered and patched, and the Concorde was so sleek and lean.

And they and all the planes and space capsules and satellites there were so much the stuff that dreams are made of that I just couldn’t help myself.

They were made for the sky, but they are earthbound now. No longer where they belong.

Wild Cat

Wild Cat

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It would have been easy to blame Copper, but he hadn’t been outside yet yesterday morning when we noticed the cat up in the tree.  Not just any cat — a large, wild-looking one with a raccoon-striped tail.  And not just any tree — one of the tall oaks.

From what I could figure he was 30 or 40 feet up. The temperature was in the 20s, with a stiff breeze that moved the trunk from side to side. 
The cat had found a perch of sorts, and at times looked content, as if sunning itself. But the longer it remained, the more agitated it seemed, shifting position, making half-hearted attempts to claw its way down. 
Finally, there was real movement, a quick scamper, an impossible leap and — after a few heart-stopping seconds when it seemed as if the animal almost certainly hadn’t survived the fall — a glimpse of that same striped tail moving side to side. 
Within seconds, the cat had scampered out of the brush, under the fence and into the woods. 
Destination unclear, motivation unknown. It may not have been a wildcat … but it was a wild cat.
Red Buds

Red Buds

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It’s not just the red bud that blooms in red this time of year. Many trees are erupting in a frizz of scarlet. Red oak, maples, burning bush and others.

I snapped these tree buds out a window as they posed in front of a nice, neutral wall. But they’re just the beginning.

I look up, see a blur of pale color where stark branches used to be.

Spring begins slightly out of focus, as if our eyes can’t take too much at once.

Gift of Perspective

Gift of Perspective

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We have family visiting from Portland, and they’ve brought with them the energy of the tourist. Up before dawn to wait in line for the Supreme Court. Out in the evening to sample a hot new restaurant.

Days crammed with sights and monuments — the Magna Carta and the Constitution; the Washington Monument and the Vietnam War Memorial; Ford’s Theater and the Holocaust Museum.

What a gift they are to weary residents!  We who too often see tourists as annoying people who dally at street corners and stand on the left hand side of the escalators. Move it people. We’re important. We must rush to the office where we’ll — hmmm — let’s see …  What will we do at the office that’s more important than ambling the streets of this stately city, letting its wonders unfold before us?

Travelers may think they’re only lugging laptops and suitcases. But they also bring with them the gift of perspective. They help us see our place as a new place.

(The view outside my office, seen from a new perspective.)

Tea Time

Tea Time

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Driving to the office this morning gave me the chance to lug in something I would not usually lug in — a thermos. And I’m now enjoying a cup of hot tea that could only have come from my own teapot at home.

It’s all courtesy of a thermos, this low-tech marvel, insulator extraordinaire. This one is large, built like a pitcher with a spout that makes it easy to pour from container to mug … which … I just did.

The steam is rising, the thermos is hissing. The page proofs on my desk can wait another few minutes. It’s tea time.

Rethinking March

Rethinking March

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I’ve never been a big fan of March. True, there is basketball to watch, and the first daffodils to savor. January and February are behind us, always a good thing. But March has never been one of my favorite months.

As time continues to speed up on me, however, as March comes sooner and sooner every year, I realize I can no longer afford to dislike it. (Of course, you could make the opposite argument — that the faster time goes, the quicker we will be done with March — but I’m trying to be positive in this post!)

All this is to say that March and I are considering a truce. Take yesterday’s walk, for instance. It was with Copper, which meant melancholy was impossible. Still, I was expending some mental effort trying to figure out what it is about the month that bothers me.

But as I pondered, my eyes kept straying to the gray/white sky, to the birds wheeling about trees still winter bare. A desultory woodpecker drilled loudly from the woods. A crow touched down with wind-swerved wing. The first brave yellows and purples stuck their heads above ground. And suddenly I was struck with the feel of the air and of the moment. There is much to behold in this raw month, much to appreciate in its wild, windswept beauty.

First Flower

First Flower

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I noticed the small bloom late last week, a buttercup yellow flower called winter aconite. Though I’ve spotted crocus and snowdrops in other yards, this was the first one in ours.

But by yesterday, it was gone.

The early flowers are shy, low to the ground, tender of stem.  They are also fleeting, as is all spring beauty.

They are like sculptures made of sand, sunsets made of shifting light and clouds. They remind us to look deeply at first glance.

(No pictures of winter aconite; these crocus will have to do.)