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Author: Anne Cassidy

Outside In

Outside In

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The heat is building. It will be 95 today. But the last three days have been a reprieve: cool nights and thinly warm days. No blanket of humidity. Just clean heat and when the sun goes down a hint of chill.

Which means we turned off the air-conditioning, opened the windows and kept the door to the deck ajar these last few days.

Summer is at its peak when this boundary is broken. Copper wanders at will from couch to yard, no scratching to be let in. We have the same freedom. Indoors or out, what does it matter? It is all one. What liberation. This is what summer was made for: to bring the outside in.

Getting a Letter

Getting a Letter

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Some Harry Potter fans I know were chatting the other day. “Yeah, she’d get a letter,” they said of one member of our family. “No, he wouldn’t,” they said of another.

They were talking about letters of admission to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The occasion: the release of the final Hogwarts film.

This got me thinking about whimsy, one of the requirements for admission to Hogwarts, according to my sources.

When I was walking the shore in Chincoteague last week I spied a few highly whimsical pieces of beach art that made me smile. Whimsy. Got to keep it alive.

Prelude

Prelude

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Before the blog is written, before the essay, too, the floor must be swept, dishes stowed, smudges wiped. The grime that’s hidden, that can stay, but surface dirt is doomed.

Still, surface dirt takes time.

So words are choked, ideas evaporate — sometimes. Other times they come back, richer than before. On days I work at home I laugh at myself. To clear my mind I run around with vacuum and rag. It is the price I pay to write without guilt.

Hot Town

Hot Town

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Repaving time in Folkstone: Large trucks fill our quiet streets. The old surface is scraped off, ground down. Our road is corrugated and bumpy, uneven and unsettling. It is 95 degrees but feels 10 degrees hotter in the paving zone.

On evening walks I see the big machines hushed to stillness, parked at corners, hunks of metal, nothing else. I keep to the crushed gravel path. I don’t yet trust the smooth surface that covers only half the road. Is it too new to walk on? Does it need seasoning? And more importantly: Does it give us a fresh start?

Bird Listener

Bird Listener

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I’m not sure, but I think I have what it takes to become a birdwatcher. A few years ago I would not have admitted this. But lately I’ve been drawn to birds, and I spent a lot of time watching them last week.

Chincoteague is a birders’ paradise, especially in spring and fall when migrating shore birds and song birds — warblers, vireos and indigo buntings — stop in for a day or two on the way to their final bough or branch.

Last night as I was coming home from work I heard the most beautiful bird song. It was a mockingbird, I think, perched on the upper level of the Metro parking garage, and the little creature was unspooling such a ribbon of song that I thought more commuters would lift their eyes to find the source.

Making it through another day often requires that we keep our heads down, and bird listening (if not watching) is a good antidote to that habit. If I don’t become a bird watcher, at least I will become a bird listener. Guess I already am.

Getting Out

Getting Out

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I hadn’t ridden Metro in 10 days and my first day back brought a delay. “This train is being off-loaded. Everyone out,” the conductor shouted. So we grabbed our bags and backpacks and joined the crush of other commuters on the platform.

It was dark and steamy. Passengers were not happy. It’s one thing to end your day with an off-load; starting it that way, when you’re morning crisp, is especially trying.

Then it dawned on me. Yes, it was already 80 at 7 a.m., but I was close enough to walk to the office. So I maneuvered my way down the platform and up the escalator to the outside world. The sidewalks were wide and the morning was bright. There was a faint breeze. I was out of the tunnel and could see far ahead.

Vacations, even short ones, show me the edges of things, reveal ways around obstacles. They help me see that I am not trapped.


Photo: PublicDomainPictures.net

Return, Remember

Return, Remember

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A new ritual of return: Cleaning out the email inbox. I tried to be diligent this time. I curbed that index finger. It wanted to hit delete far too often. Instead, I took my time and gave every email the time it deserved. From a week’s worth of general announcements, spam and cc’s, I ended up with a handful of genuine must-attend-to’s. Now, the real work begins…

When I feel overwhelmed, I’ll remember scenes like this.

ISO Cake

ISO Cake

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My sister, Ellen, joined me in Chincoteague at the end of the week and we spent a lazy day together talking, walking the beach, riding our bikes and sitting in the hot tub. After dinner Friday night we started talking about Smith Island cakes. Ellen had tasted a couple and as she described the many light layers, the delectable frosting, the overall wonder of the thing, we decided we had to taste one.

So we went by a place that advertised the cakes. They were out. The town bakery was closed. As we looked through menus in our motel lobby, the ladies at the desk overheard our conversation. We would be driving home the next day through Salisbury. Did they know of anyplace?

Salisbury, asked one, with a faint smile and a faintly arched brow. Yes, she did. Which is how Ellen and I found ourselves in a little strip shopping center off Milford Drive in downtown Salisbury, Maryland, buying ourselves each a slice of a fresh strawberry Smith Island cake.

Yes, the layers were lighter the air. And there were seven of ’em. The strawberries were ripe and full-bodied. The frosting was divine. No wonder the cake is Maryland’s official state dessert. It was a sweet way to end a vacation.

Photo from smithisland.org

Making Friends

Making Friends

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On a solo walk the other day, I found myself at the far end of the beach with a thunderstorm crackling and snapping around me. What had been a leisurely stroll became a full-tilt run back to the inhabited end of the strand.

So yesterday I perched closer to civilization, found myself falling into conversation with a woman as we walked the same way.

A long time ago, I co-authored a book called Single File. It was about the upside of singleness and how women need to maintain their independence even when they are married. The last few days have been a good lesson in this for me.

Meanwhile, I found myself with a new friend. I know what he was after (part of my lunch), but I savored his companionship just the same.

Letting Go

Letting Go

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One of many reasons I like the beach: It is made for restless people. Waves crash, gulls dive, tides move. Even the barrier island itself is shifting, sand grain by sand grain, imperceptible to us but movement just the same.

For those of us whose thoughts race and careen — who start with a prayer and end with a shopping list — the beach is both balm and inspiration.

I read in the paper the other day about the Dalai Lama’s visit to D.C., and how in honor of the Kalachakra Festival monks would be sculpting intricate designs from both sand and butter. All is transient: beauty, worship, the work of our hands.

The beach blares the same message: If things seem bad, wait a minute. They will get better. Effort is good, effort is expected. But we must also learn to let go. The beach is an excellent teacher.