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Author: Anne Cassidy

Tap, Tap, Tap

Tap, Tap, Tap

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The question of the day is this one: Is it easier to skim books while reading them electronically? My answer would be yes.

It’s easier to tap a page than to turn one, and I’ve been tapping plenty while reading The Pattern in the Carpet: A Personal History with Jigsaws by Margaret Drabble.

It’s not that I’m not enjoying the book; I am. I’ve always liked Drabble’s novels. I would follow her voice anywhere, even into a 344-page book on jigsaw puzzles. In fact, it’s about much more than that, dipping into games, mosaics and children’s books.

Still, the book has much more puzzle than it does personal history. There’s a remedy for that, though: tap, tap, tap.

A Close Call

A Close Call

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It came out of nowhere, wings flapping, talons at the ready, and before I could process what was happening I was fighting off a red-shouldered hawk. It didn’t want me for lunch. But it was definitely interested in the parakeets sitting outside with me, blithely chirping and hopping around in their cage, taking in the unseasonable warmth.

The red-shouldered hawk is a substantial bird, weighing a pound or more with a wingspan of several feet. I often hear hawks, and I see them occasionally, too, either in flight or perched nearby.

I never thought I’d have to fight one, though. Because the raptor was not discouraged by my first swat. It circled around and came back for more. It knew what it wanted and was determined to have it. Had I not been there it would likely have killed the budgies; its talons are long enough to reach inside the cage.

I often rhapsodize about the natural world — and why not? It comforts and inspires me; it connects me with the divine. But to live among wild creatures means to accept them on their own terms. The hawk is a predator. Parakeets are prey. The flimsy bars of a birdcage are a very small part of this equation.

(A closeup of Toby before the attack. Afterward, he made himself very small and didn’t move a muscle.)

In the Stacks

In the Stacks

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I hadn’t intended it as a stress reliever, but when I stepped into the stacks at Georgetown’s Lauinger Library this morning, my shoulders relaxed, my fists unclenched, and my breathing slowed. The books took me to a cool, calm place, a place I needed to be.

I was there to pick up The Postsecular Imagination, but I wanted to make the most of the trip, so I browsed a bit. I found nature writing and place writing. I found solace.

All the words and all the wisdom. All the folly, too. The human condition writ large. The human condition writ, period. But the human condition between covers. Which is where I’d prefer to find it right now.

What Matters Most

What Matters Most

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I tried to avoid contact with the outside world this morning, but the news alert function on my computer had other ideas. I can’t say I was surprised. My mind held out hope but my gut told me otherwise. I seldom take an antacid; I swallowed a large dose last night.

The world will go on, I tell myself. As if to prove the point I glimpsed the first fox I’ve seen in months scampering through the the backyard. I cracked the window and sniffed the air spilling through the screen. It’s an aroma that takes me back to earliest childhood: wildness with a metallic overlay.

Nature heals, I tell myself. What matters most is what’s at hand: family, friends, faith, health, home. I hope that everyone in this country can feel the same, no matter which circle they inked in on their ballot.

Circles

Circles

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In the end it all comes down to circles. I walk to the table, pull out my own pen (superstition? fastidiousness?) and ink in the ovals on the paper ballot.

I move my pen slowly, methodically. In my mind are memories of 2000, hanging chads, holding ballots up to the light. Let there be no questions, no doubts. Just miles from where I live, federal buildings are barricaded, extra police are patrolling.

When I finish, I slide my ballot into the machine. A message reads “Your vote is counted.” In exchange I receive another circle, a sticker to wear. “I voted.”

After all the anxieties and doubts and change of candidates in July. … After scanning the newspaper for months, shielding myself from news I know will make me crazy. … After all the emails and texts asking for money and support. … After all of this, it comes down to this ballot, these circles, this vote. It’s my right as a citizen, and I embrace it fervently. I hope we all do!

Take Back the Dawn

Take Back the Dawn

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For us early morning folk, the time change gives us back our mojo. No longer fumbling in the dark on waking. Now a rim of light glows around the edges of the shade.

I walk down to my office window to find a palette of color. The corals of sunrise and the oranges of autumn make dawns as rosy-fingered as Homer said they were.

I know what’s waiting around the corner. This light will not last. Mornings will grow dark again. But for the moment, I’m reveling in them.

A Martian Morning

A Martian Morning

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Up early, I creep into my office, journal and book in hand. There is homework, committee work, a presentation, two papers. Plenty to do, in other words. But here, in this warm sanctuary, at this apple-green desk, all I want to do is look out the window at the dark sky.

Is that a star? A planet? Some quick googling tells me that it’s Mars, visible in the southern sky before dawn.

As long as I’m looking, I read about the Red Planet. Though its years are almost twice as long as ours, its days are almost exactly the same.

Here on Earth, the days are long but the years are short. On Mars, perhaps we could reverse that — or at least tweak it a bit.

(Photo of Mars courtesy Wikipedia.)

Catch a Falling Leaf

Catch a Falling Leaf

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On a walk this afternoon I spent more time than I intended trying to photograph leaves in flight. So many of them are swirling around that it seems I should be able to capture at least one or two mid-journey.

But either the light isn’t right, or they’re eddying about frantically rather than gently floating to the earth. Just as often, I spy the perfect slow-descending leaf but by the time I pull out my camera, it’s too late.

It’s a delicate business, like capturing a single snowflake or the down of a thistle. Perhaps it’s best left to chance.

Trick or Treat?

Trick or Treat?

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The candy bowl will be full when little ghosts and goblins stop by tonight … if they stop by. The number of trick-or-treaters waxes and wanes depending upon weather, the age of neighboring kids, and the timing of the neighborhood Halloween party.

This year, that was held last Sunday. Long enough ago that the treats distributed might have already been consumed. Long enough ago that they’ll need replenishing.

Let’s hope they will. I would hate to have to eat them myself.

Just a Bit

Just a Bit

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A class assignment has me remembering the trip I took to Bangladesh in August 2017. For more than two weeks I traveled around the country interviewing people, soaking up the atmosphere — and sometimes the mud, too. It was just an introduction to this marvelous country but I was so impressed.

I met men who were trafficked and returned home to start a business — so they wouldn’t be tempted to leave the country for work again. A woman who became a leader in her community, sharing new agricultural techniques, helping her family and her village improve their standard of living. People who had lost homes in a cyclone and were rebuilding the mangrove forests that protected them from tidal surges.

Everywhere we went — and we covered much of the country — there were people making the most of challenging circumstances. They were a resilient bunch, philosophical and open-hearted.

Now I want to share just a bit of what I learned. The “just a bit” … that’s the challenge.