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Author: Anne Cassidy

Liftoff and Letdown

Liftoff and Letdown

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Yesterday I had the pleasure of going through airport security twice for the same flight. I’d left something in the car. Later in the day, while waiting for a connection in another airport, I walked past an even busier security checkpoint, people rushing to lace up their shoes, stuff toiletries in bags, zip laptops into cases.

That flying is an exhausting, dehumanizing experience is news to no one. But you forget just how exhausting and dehumanizing when most of your trips are by car.

In exchange for the miracle of flight, we have the humiliation of full-body scans, the inconvenience of unpacking what we just packed and stuffing it into gray bins, the thrill of padding barefoot along the airport floor.

A reminder that even though we soar through clouds, our fears and troubles usually keep us earthbound.

Edging

Edging

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A walker notices boundaries. Often in the suburbs these boundaries are sidewalks, and often in the suburbs these sidewalks are edged.

And so … a brief meditation on edging, on the dividing line between concrete and soil, on the tendrils that can spread themselves across the border and on the neat way some homeowners have of highlighting this divide. 

The tool (perhaps it’s called an edger?!) that wedges itself between lawn and walkway or the whirring blade that separates weeds from lawn. Surely these are born of a need to cultivate, to order and refresh.

Though it’s easy to trip on edges, to twist the ankle or wedge the shoe, one has to admire the diligence with which some homeowners keep the wild world at bay.

I used to think edging was silly. Now I’m not so sure.

The Growth of Shade

The Growth of Shade

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As trees lean taller into themselves their leaves cling more certainly to each other. The sun, shut out, slides graciously away. What is left, of course, is shade. A thicket of darkness on the lea side of morning.

The growth of shade brings contentment, air cooled by absence of light. A shady street is anything but shady. It is proud, its houses shielded from the street and the glances of strangers. It is green and settled.

A neighborhood rich in shade is rich in so much else.

Mini Reunion

Mini Reunion

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The last high school reunion we made a vow: Get together more often than every 10 years. And now, only two years later, we’re making good on our promise. Tonight, 35 proud (!) graduates of Henry Clay High School in Lexington, Kentucky, will gather at a local watering hole to check in with each other again.

Some of these people were good friends of mine in eleventh and twelfth grades (when I transferred to a new school because my family moved a few blocks away). Others are acquaintances. But all of us shared a moment in time, and it was apparent at the last reunion how much of a bond that is.

With my youngest child just out of high school now I conjure up memories of my own secondary school experience, some pleasant and some painful. But all of them increasingly precious as the years roll on.

Big Sky

Big Sky

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There is the Big Sky of the West, mesas hulking in the distance, red rock, cloudless sky, the tang of  wild sage.

But what I had forgotten is that there is also the Big Sky of the beach, the vast horizon beyond the breakers, the vistas north and south, clouds looming in the late afternoon sky — seeing the weather before it arrives.

Here too is a vast panorama, scenery that takes me out of myself, the curve of the earth implied but not stated.

Sun on Water

Sun on Water

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The sun rises and sets every day, of course, but in my regular life I don’t see it.

It’s an everyday miracle hidden behind hills and houses and daily routines.

But here at the beach I have time to watch the sun as it moves through the sky. Faraway star, morning beacon, evening entertainment — it disappears, finally, behind banks of clouds. But first a light show, late rays on water, glorious, best viewed in silence.

The Return

The Return

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Walking an unfamiliar route can mean a longer jaunt than expected. Landmarks beckon: Just one more block. The temptation is to run too far down the beach or path. And then …. you have to walk home.

Yesterday I ran out and lost steam. The landmarks that flew by the first time passed more slowly on the return. On the other hand, it was on the return that I savored the sights I had sped by earlier.

I’ve always wondered about the different ways we perceive time on a journey. It often seems faster on the way home, perhaps because the sights are more familiar. But when you run one way and walk the other, the reverse is true. The return takes longer — but gives more.

Brown Study

Brown Study

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In Victorian novels characters are apt to be caught in a brown study. It’s a state of deep thought, a reverie, perhaps with a slightly gloomy cast, though more abstracted than anything else.

I put the phrase “brown study” in the same category as “wool gathering” — though the latter means indulging in idle fantasies or daydreams. It’s less furrowing of the brow and more staring at the clouds.

Both conditions have a certain fuzziness about them, though; both connote a cocoon of thought, whether stimulating or soothing.

Both are lovely, fanciful ways of taking leave — even if just momentarily — of the here and now.

Away Message

Away Message

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Every month at work I receive an inbox full of away messages courtesy of an e-newsletter my office sends out. While I typically think of these as an annoyance and delete them without a second glance, the last time I decided to read some.

I decided that there’s an art to the away message. Some are terse, no nonsense: I am away from the office until August 19.  I will answer emails when I return.

Others offer a ray of hope: I will be away until August 19 with limited access to email. “Limited” is not defined, of course. Does this mean a response later in the week? the day? the hour?  I’ve had all three experiences.

Many propose alternate forms of assistance: If you need immediate help, please contact … Often these substitutes are obvious ones, the colleagues anyone who’s in touch with you would already know. But listing them in the away message provides some coverage, some control.

The best away messages are the ones that already carry some of that devil-may-care vacation spirit. “I’m in Bora Bora till the cows come home. Deal with it, wage slave!”

These are the messages that can cause a contagion of sick days. They are not polite, not corporate. And they don’t end with “Thanks” or “Best” but with “Ciao” or “Later.”

The away message of my dreams.

Taking a Stand

Taking a Stand

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I’m writing this post standing up. More and more often it’s the way I like to be, to write, to edit. A tall desk, a place to lean, the words flowing out (am I just imagining this?) a tad more freely.

There’s a reason for this, probably age related, though I’d just as soon not think about that. Sciatica, a pain that starts in the back, rolls down the legs, makes sitting uncomfortable.

Though pushed to stand by necessity, I find it has other charms, keeps me a little more alert, a little more aware of the world around me. It’s an observation-stimulant. I’m more vigilant, not quite as easy in my skin.

And of course, the vantage point can’t be beat. When I’m standing up, I can see farther down the road.