Browsed by
Author: Anne Cassidy

Flow in Motion

Flow in Motion

Comments 0 Comment

“It is normally easy and actually quite pleasant to walk and think at the same time, but at the extremes these activities appear to compete for … limited resources,” writes Daniel Kahneman in his book Thinking Fast and Slow.  “My experience is that I can think while strolling but cannot engage in mental work that imposes a heavy load on short-term memory.”

Without going into the nuances of Kahneman’s theory (in large part because I’ve just started the book and am still figuring them out!), what he’s saying here is fairly straightforward: There is only so much energy to go around, and it’s difficult if not impossible to expend great mental and physical effort at the same time.

In my experience, walking promotes thought. The mental briars that entangle me when I’m sitting still aren’t present when I’m skimming along a trail. Motion accelerates thought, enlarges it, shakes it free.

The explanation is, in part, speed. Were I to run I would think a lot less. But the answer also lies in something Kahneman discusses a few paragraphs later,  the concept of flow, “a state of effortless concentration so deep that [people] lose their sense of time, of themselves, of their problems.”

What happens when we walk (or at least when I walk) is flow in motion. Which sounds redundant. But actually isn’t.

Grasping the Moment

Grasping the Moment

Comments 0 Comment

There was a last-minute offer to grill, a request for chicken, zucchini and tomatoes, all of which I gladly supplied. And then there was transporting the grill, the real thing, the Weber, with its bag of charcoal.

The real grill takes time to heat up so there were games of catch with Copper, plenty of ins and outs through the backdoor. People appeared on the deck, talked on their phones and then vanished back inside. Earlier we had sifted through an album, found a black and white photo of Tom from his long-hair days. This was passed around and admired. We opened some hard cider, marveling at its tang and effervescence.

Two more friends appeared, and now it was an impromptu party. I bounced on the trampoline, listening to songs I’d just bought: “Teach Your Children Well,” “September,” “Your Song,” “Morning has Broken.”

My troubles left me alone for this blissful, golden evening. The late light glancing the trunks of the oaks, the hydrangea blooming, voices from inside, laughing. People, young people, talking about music and jokes and places we don’t know and never care to find out. Someone could have pulled out a guitar, strummed a few chords, and I wouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe next time. It was life renewing itself. And I was pulled along by it, glad for the ride.

Escape Route

Escape Route

Comments 1 comment

A few days of blissful low-humidity weather mean that at the highest point of my favorite walking route the foothills of the Blue Ridge swing cleanly, clearly, briskly into focus. I like to think of this as my “escape route,” the one that gives me, better than any other, a glimpse of a world that lies beyond.

For the longest time the route — and for all practical purposes the view — didn’t exist. The road was curvy, two-lane and treacherous. You walked it at your peril. And even if you did, you wouldn’t have seen the mountains. They would only have been visible from the ridge above — and probably not even there, since the trees that grew along the brow obscured the horizon, too.

But when a new housing development shoved out the few remaining homes and a preschool, the view emerged. And the sidewalk supplied by the property developers opened it up to all.

I had to stop griping about progress then. For once it was on our side, the side of the walkers, the side of those who like to be reminded where they are in the world. The side of those who like their escape routes.


(This is not exactly what I see. My view is of the same mountain range, just farther east.)

New House, Part 2

New House, Part 2

Comments 2 comments

“Our house, is a very, very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard,
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy ’cause of you….”

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

They said it would be finished by June 1, and, except for some trim in the back, largely invisible to the untrained eye, it is.

Even though I was here for most of it — shuddered as the old siding was ripped off,

got a headache when the new windows were pounded in, took our poor beside-himself dog Copper for walk after walk to get him out of the place as the work continued — it still seems miraculous that from this

 … there came this.

Perhaps there was some magic fairy dust involved…

Day Off

Day Off

Comments 1 comment

The weather forecast looked good. And there is the birthday thing. So today seemed as good a day as any to play hookey.

Not that I’ve done much so far. Written. Talked. Opened email to find greetings from friends and family. A walk still to come.

A catbird is singing.  The day lilies starting to bloom. The new climbing rose surging skyward.

There is a sense of pleasant rightness in the air.

Independence Day

Independence Day

Comments 0 Comment

Even when I’m not looking for them, I find exhortations and excoriations about place. I picked up Richard Ford’s Independence Day, for example, because I read a review of his new novel, Canada, which raved also about his earlier works. I had no idea that Independence Day would be laced with thoughts on houses and towns and their promises and deceptions, nor that the narrator, writer-turned-realtor Frank Bascombe, would muse often about real estate and belonging.

Here Frank compares his current residence in suburban Haddam, New Jersey, to his southern birthplace. “(Of course, having come first to life in a true place, and one as monotonously, lankly itself as the Mississippi Gulf Coast, I couldn’t be truly surprised that a simple setting such as Haddam — willing to be so little itself — would seem, on second look, a great relief and damned easy to cozy up to.)”

Later in the novel Frank totes up what he’s learned about belonging from “a patent lesson of the realty profession, to cease sanctifying places — houses, beaches, hometowns, a street corner where you once kissed a girl, a parade ground where you marched in line, a courthouse where you secured a divorce on a cloudy day in July but where there is now no sign of you, no mention in the air’s breath that you were there or that you were ever, importantly you, or that you even were. We may feel they ought to, should confer something— sanction, again — because of events that transpired there once; light a warming fire to animate us when we’re well nigh inanimate and sunk. But they don’t. Places never cooperate by revering you back when you need it. In fact, they almost always let you down. … Place means nothing.”

Frank doesn’t waver in his opinion at the end of the novel, either. No sentimental backtracking for him: “It’s worth asking again: is there any cause to think a place — any place — within its plaster and joists, its trees and plantings, in its putative essence ever shelters some spirit ghost of us as proof of its significance and ours? No! Not one bit! Only other humans do that, and then only under special circumstances…”

I don’t completely agree with Ford, but he makes a persuasive case.

A Change of Screen

A Change of Screen

Comments 0 Comment

A change of scene is not always possible, so in its place, a change of screen. I choose a photo of a hike we took in the Czech Republic, high above the town of Czesky Krumlov. The Vltava River flows below, out of view in this photograph. And the hills that rise in blue infinity, those are the Sumava Mountains of Bohemia, in the heart of Europe.

When I stare at my computer’s desktop screen now, I remember the breathlessness of that walk, the little shrines we stopped at along the way, the snails that clung to the dew-wet grass, the view that awaited us at the top. Limitless. 

Decoration Day

Decoration Day

Comments 0 Comment

We have no flagpole holder, no siding on our house to hold one, and the front of our house is obscured by large trucks. Still, I walked to the mailbox a minute ago to stick a small flag in its arm.  It’s Decoration Day, Memorial Day’s first name, what it was called when it was established in 1868 for the purpose of decorating the graves of fallen soldiers.

No longer May 30, Memorial Day is the last Monday of the month — a day for cookouts, pool openings and ushering in the summer. But long ago (and in some places still) it was a day for a solemn parade and a trip to the cemetery.

Here is a Decoration Day parade from Brownsville, Texas, in 1916, photographed by Robert Runyon and downloaded from the Library of Congress’ American Memory project.

(Photo: The Robert Runyon Photograph Collection, [image number, e.g.,
00199], courtesy of
The Center for American History, The University of Texas at Austin.)

New House, Part 1

New House, Part 1

Comments 0 Comment

They are stripping our house, skinning it, peeling off panel after panel of dented aluminum siding. How inconsequential it all seems now, this pile of discarded metal.

But this shell is what has protected us from wind and rain and snow. It has been our barrier, our boundary with the outside world. It has held in the giggles and the screams and the slamming of doors. It has kept out the snow and the wind and the withering heat.

Seeing it now in piles upon the ground it hardly seems possible it has done all of these things. But I’ve been here. I know it has.

To be continued.

(Photo by neighbor John DeVoe of an earlier phase of reconstruction: the new roof we got Tuesday. Due to current camera glitches, I’m one day behind in photo retrieval.)

Sleight of Hand

Sleight of Hand

Comments 0 Comment

A month from today Suzanne flies to Benin, West Africa, to begin her Peace Corps assignment. We’ve known about this for months, but now that we’re down to the final weeks it’s becoming more and more a reality. The map of Africa isn’t the only thing swinging into high relief these days. So is the map of parenthood, the map of life even, if that isn’t too melodramatic.

Children are supposed to leave their parents, start lives of their own. This is the natural order of things. I always believed this when I was the child, and I believed it as a parent, too — when my kids were young.  Now I’m having to put my money where my mouth is.

To stave off nervousness I’m concentrating not on how I’ll feel when Suzanne takes off and am trying to imagine how she’ll feel. It’s a parental sleight-of-hand that many of us do unconsciously all the time. It’s why we can smile through our tears.

I remember exactly the way I felt when I walked on the tarmac toward the plane that would fly me to Europe for two months backpacking with friends. I had just turned 20 and my whole life — and Europe! — were ahead of me. I felt like I was bouncing off the pavement. I was floating. That’s the feeling I’ll be trying to conjure up as Suzanne strides toward her future.