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Author: Anne Cassidy

Morning Commute

Morning Commute

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Until the Viking warrior sat down across from me on Metro, I was planning to write about how there are now 7 billion people alive in this world. I had my head down in the Express, my mind riffing on population growth, limited resources, oil shale and other frightful topics when I looked up and saw someone who looked like this.

The Viking made a self-conscious entrance into the Orange Line train. The horns of his helmet tangled with the Metro railing and his seat mate looked a bit askance. The Viking’s friendly nod and greeting did nothing to brighten the day of his dour fellow commuter. But some of us were chuckling behind our newspapers.

I took the time out from my scary computations ( the world population has doubled in my lifetime and is projected to be 9 billion by 2050) to revel in the fun of the season.

A Viking on Metro. Happy Halloween!

Snowtober

Snowtober

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The name isn’t mine but I can’t think of a better one for a snowy October day, one of the few we’ve ever had in northern Virginia this early in the, well, we can’t really call it winter, can we? This early in the season — that’s better.

In honor of our snowy day, here’s a photo from the vault. With fond hopes that this is not the beginning of a hard winter to come.

Thinning

Thinning

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Warm weather has kept our leaves from turning, but it hasn’t kept them from falling. On my walk this morning I skittered across frost-slicked bridges dotted with clumps of wet leaves. The woods are shimmering in some places, but denuded in others.

The overall impression is of a gradual thinning and winnowing — as if the year, winding steadily to a close — is ferreting out the truly important from the superfluous. Trees can do without this foliage, so let it go.

Our summer annuals, they too are winding down. The begonias and impatiens are stalky and pinched. They may be gone entirely tomorrow if temperatures plunge as low as predicted.

What will be left? The essentials: trunk and limb and stone and house. Only the strong survive.

Possession and Gratitude

Possession and Gratitude

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Last night in class we talked about what it means to possess the land, about feelings of stewardship that have grown out of the environmental movement and other more modern sensibilities, but also about an earlier mindset that was abroad in our nation, pushing westward, felling trees, ruining the soil, taking and taking and not giving back.

This morning, I read about how pride assumes possession — and its opposite, humility, assumes gratitude. It is a shift of mindset, then. Something to mull over on my suburban walks, how thankfulness changes things, sets us free to receive what comes and be glad. We cannot possess what we never have in the first place.

The Purpose of Walking

The Purpose of Walking

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Yesterday’s walks were mad dashes to and fro. That I was striding through liquid gold, that the air around me was as soft and inviting as any all autumn — I was vaguely aware of that. But I was so preoccupied in reaching my goal — a lunchtime errand, an after-work errand — that I didn’t slow down as I should.

Makes me think about how people used to walk. It was not for their health, it was not for their emotional enrichment. It was, simply, to get somewhere. And then to get back. There was a monotony and a sameness to it that must have worked against wisdom.

But still, walking has always had a purpose in our country. It has often meant freedom. “Being footloose has always exhilarated us,” said Wallace Stegner. “It is associated in our minds with escape from history and oppression … “

And later in this essay, Stegner quotes Gertrude Stein, who defines America in this way: “Conceive a space that is filled with moving.”

Movement through space is our heritage and our birthright. On my walk yesterday I was not alone in my oblivious striding. All around me, people were doing the same thing.

The Place Called Morning

The Place Called Morning

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When I can’t sleep, sometimes Emily Dickinson comes to mind:

“Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day?

And then, at the end, “Please to tell a little pilgrim/Where the place called morning lies.”

A place called morning: I imagine it gray and windswept, the land still scoured by night, a new day awakening from slumber, pulling itself together, splashing water on its face.

Or, I see it riding in on clouds of light, the most important guest at the ball. A bit overdressed, perhaps.

Or, I hear it first. Not this time of year, but in spring, when the early robin, that upstart, belts out his pre-dawn tune.

This time of year, mornings are black and still, a kingdom of stars and frost in the lamplight.

Homework

Homework

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Behind my back, the girls say, “Someone should tell Mom she doesn’t have to do all the reading.” But no one does. And it wouldn’t work anyway. I do all the reading gladly. And I take my time writing papers. I have fallen back into the old routine.

The last two times I was a student, I earned professional masters degrees. For 10 years, the classes I’ve been in have been ones I’m teaching.

So the class I’m taking now is just for fun. For intellectual re-engagement with the world. There is no need for excuses. The process is the point.

I had forgotten the ease of letting someone else do the work. Of sitting and listening, and not leading, the discussion. Of being all lit up by the ideas bouncing around my head. It’s good for a walker to have something to chew on while she treads the suburban paths. And I have more than my share these days.

The Heart of It All

The Heart of It All

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This is a weekend of anniversaries for us. Tom and I have always celebrated the anniversary of our first date, October 22, as well as our wedding anniversary, and yesterday was a big one for us.

Today is Suzanne’s birthday. She came within two hours of being born on “our day.” And while back then I was rooting for this to happen, now I’m glad she waited. It’s good that October 22 is just for us.

It’s easy to forget — yet wonderful to remember — that our romance, friendship and love are the heart of it all.

Artist’s Date, Redux

Artist’s Date, Redux

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My walk day before yesterday was what Julia Cameron would call an “artist’s date,” a break in the routine, something that you do for yourself once a week to shake yourself out of lethargy.

I do it once a month if I’m lucky. And I’ve written about it in this blog before. But it was a year ago, so it bears repeating.

It is humbling to notice how much we become creatures of our own habits. My interest in the history of our area, the rolling hills and crossroads of what is now called Oakton, stems in part from a random decision I made about 14 months ago to drive home from work a new way, along some of the roads I now want to comb and investigate.

From such small acts come benefits beyond measure.

Cady’s Alley

Cady’s Alley

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Yesterday I took a new route to my class in old White-Gravenor Hall on Georgetown’s main campus. I meandered my way from Foggy Bottom up the Potomac. On my left was the river, full and flowing, the trees just starting to change color on the opposite bank. On my right were restaurants, a plaza, fountains. Directly ahead of me were the grand stone arches of the Key Bridge. Sculls skimmed the river like large insects, gliding down it impossibly fast.

As I walked upstream the gray day turned to mist, then rain. I ignored it for a while, then gave up and opened my umbrella. Crossing under the elevated highway a few blocks down, I meandered eastward to the C&O Canal then up and over a bridge to Cady’s Alley.

Here was a cobblestone street lined with small shops. It was narrow and intimate with an attractive, manageable, pedestrian scale (ah, the scale of roads and buildings, that’s a topic I could never tire of). It reminded me of old towns in Europe.

To celebrate I stopped in a cafe, ordered tea and cookies. I found this place by accident. Who knows what lies around the next bend?


It’s not exactly the Innere Stadt of Vienna, pictured above, but Cady’s Alley is still quaint.