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Author: Anne Cassidy

Southwest Wind

Southwest Wind

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Spring rode in on the tail of the southwest wind. And it rode in at full speed.

Whitecaps danced on the Potomac, and greening willows swayed in the breeze.

Cyclists on the Four Mile Run Trail (one of whom was me) felt like they were on stationary bikes, so strong were the headwinds they faced. They pedaled hard but barely moved forward. A strange and unnerving sensation. Exhausting, too.

The Four Mile Trail winds through Gravelley Point Park, which lies along the approach to National Airport. Which means that when I looked up from my torturous ride, I saw this.

If I was having so much trouble steering my bike, though, how difficult was it for the pilots to land? Hmmm. Maybe not such a good day to be at Gravelly Point Park. And so I pedaled away as quickly as I could. Which wasn’t very quickly.

Mulching Season

Mulching Season

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I have a complicated relationship with mulch.

When we first moved here 24 years ago, I saw in mulch all the suburban ills — the false tidiness, the compulsive behavior of gardeners who seemed to have nothing better to do than spread the stuff halfway up their tree trunks.

These were days of high complaint for me. I missed the small New England village we’d just left. A place where houses sat right on the side of small lanes — and mulching, when it did occur, was done discretely out back.

Flash forward almost a quarter of a century. The small town idyll mourned and missed but ultimately abandoned. And the years that passed have not been kind to our yard. It’s obvious we have used no lawn service, no chemicals, either — unless you count lime.

Mulch covers a multitude of sins. Also, of course, it keeps weeds at bay.

Now I walk past yards aromatic with the stuff, gardens darkened with the best, shredded kind. And I wish not for a mulch-free yard, just the opposite. I wish for a yard already mulched. For mulch that doesn’t lie in bags in the driveway, for mulch that’s already been spread.

Lo, how the mighty have fallen.

On the Path to Spring

On the Path to Spring

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The rain that was supposed to come today arrived last night instead. We have sunshine and fuller air and only a faint breeze stirring the holly.

Winter has hung on longer than usual this year, and any warmth is welcome. I remind myself what it will feel like in August, the blanket of humidity that will descend upon us then, how even a half-mile stroll will be a walk through wet cement.

Doesn’t matter. I crave warmth anyway. At this point I’m an animal emerging from hibernation, shaking my coat, searching for a rock to bask upon.

Daffodils

Daffodils

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I discovered them last year and have imagined them many times since. Not exactly Wordsworth’s daffodils, but close. They have the same careless profusion, the same grace and glee. They come to a world stripped of color; they are the opening salvo of spring.

Even knowing they were there, I was still surprised by their number and color, by the way they’ve threaded themselves through the woods.

And I wasn’t the only one. There were other walkers on the path, nodding, pointing, savoring their glory.

I almost took another picture. But I’d taken several last year. So this year’s pilgrimage was just to look, to imagine, to store them up like sunshine and good times. To keep them in mind as the poet did, for a “vacant” or “pensive mood.”

And that’s where they are now, and where they’ll stay.

Beyond the Horizon

Beyond the Horizon

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Three walks yesterday: One in the morning, one at lunchtime, one in the evening.

In the first, the sun blared in from the east, blotting out all color on the Mall. The darkness in this photograph is deceptive. The place was flooded with light. But as I stepped in front of the Capitol, the rising sun seemed to disappear behind the building, and the birds, lively at that time of day, flew in and out of the rays.

It was only when I looked at the photo again today that I noticed the aura that emanates from the Capitol Dome. As if the sun was rising right behind it, as if the city ceased to exist beyond that horizon. Not just the city but all known inhabited places.

What lies beyond is terra incognita. A steep cliff and then nothing. Unknown lands. A blank slate. The future.

Waiting for Spring

Waiting for Spring

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An early morning trip to see the cherry blossoms. The only pink I see is in the sky. The buds, tight-fisted, will hold out a few days more.

They are bundled up as warmly as I am in coat, scarf and gloves.

But they’ll be worth the wait. They always are.

No Fooling

No Fooling

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Easter’s proximity to April Fool’s Day this year — plus a sermon yesterday mentioning how an agnostic might think that Jesus’ disciples hid his body to build the case for resurrection — makes me ponder faith, naivete and what it means to believe.

As the mother of a teenager I’m accustomed to defending my church-going behavior. It’s not hedging bets, not really, but at some point I think we choose to believe.

This may not be faith. But it’s close enough for me.

Eggs!

Eggs!

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Consider the egg. I will be considering dozens of them today. Consider its potential. Consider it theoretically, of course.

If left alone an egg would become a larger food, with more protein and heft. But instead it’s consumed early in its life cycle. Which makes it precious. When Suzanne arrived in a small African village, her compound-mates offered her an egg. It’s the food of welcome —and welcome food, too.

Today and tomorrow, eggs all over Christendom will be punctured, boiled, blown, colored and hidden. Some of these eggs will have their yolks lifted, fluffed, seasoned and stuffed back into their whites. And then they will be admired and eaten.

But this morning, early on this day of preparation, eggs are still in their cartons. They haven’t yet been put to the test. They are still more potential than actual, which is what they always are, when you think about it.

The Valley

The Valley

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On the way to Kentucky it’s the prelude; on the way home, it’s the coda. But whether coming or going it’s never a destination of its own, only a blurred backdrop at 70 miles an hour.

Still, it’s a pleasant one: broad fields, middling mountains, the eye drawn to that combination of height and breadth; to the purples, blues and browns; to the cattle grazing black against the green.

The Shenandoah Valley slices down the western side of the state, 200 miles of in betweenness. If it weren’t for the pulse-pounding traffic of I-81 it would be a meditation. Some day, I’ll pause and make it one.

A School

A School

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To visit a hometown is to walk with ghosts. To look at streets and see what used to be. To peer in windows and imagine life on the other side of time.

A church, a house, a park, a store.

And here, a school. My first. Here in this hallway we waited for a drink at the fountain on the first warm days of May. We lit the Advent candle in December. We scuttled in with our new penny loafers and pencils and school bags the first week of September.

All so long ago now as to have been a dream. But it wasn’t a dream. I have the evidence right here.