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Keeneland

Keeneland

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Walking the roads and paths of this suburban land, I think often about belonging, about whether I do or do not. At this point, it’s a moot point. I belong, whether I “belong” or not! Our children have grown up here; this is their “hometown.”

But still, I often compare the way I feel about my home in northern Virginia with the way I feel about my hometown of Lexington, Kentucky. No matter how many walks I take, shortcuts I learn or people I know — this place will never be that place, the place where I grew up, where I first came alive to the world.

On Monday, the last day of a week-long trip to Kentucky, I spent a few minutes snapping photos at Keeneland. I remember going to this gem of a racetrack as a little girl, smelling the beer-and-cigar-laced air of the cool, dark area under the grandstand, watching the jockeys mount their horses in the paddock, joining the throngs screaming at the rail as a 99-1 shot pulled off the impossible.

Seeing it alone, in midwinter, stripped of the crowds and the thoroughbreds that bring it life could have been a melancholy experience. But it wasn’t. I have Keeneland right where I need it to be; it’s part of me now.  

Over the River …

Over the River …

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And through the woods … traveling to the Thanksgiving feast has never been easy. But here in the megalopolis it’s taken on a new degree of craziness.

A nor’easter is expected to dump anywhere from two to four inches of rain in the next 24 hours. Snow and ice have not been ruled out. Flooding is a possibility. Traffic jams are guaranteed.

To gather at grandma’s all you needed was a sleigh and a team of willing horses. To reach family and friends at the modern table requires strategic thinking (should I leave at 2 or 1:30?), nerves of steel (which route through the mountains promises the least chance of snow accumulation?) and a go-for-it attitude.

But go-for-it we will. People are important. Whether they’re over the river and through the woods — or up I-95.

Mental Map

Mental Map

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What wakes the mind before the body is ready? Does sleep’s string snag on
a jagged dream?  Whatever the cause, suddenly thoughts are spinning again.

There is only so much one can do when
unconscious. Best to seek its return as quickly as possible. Shift from back to
side, flip the pillow to find its cool undercoat. Seek the trail of breadcrumbs back to oblivion.

As Hansel and Gretel discovered, though, breadcrumbs are not reliable. Pebbles work better. They
gleam in the dark; they light the way home. 
Best of all, though, is to memorize the
way. To have a mental map and follow it.
Blue Marble

Blue Marble

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It’s the fortieth anniversary of the Apollo 17 astronauts’ famous photo of earth from space, the  Writer’s Almanac tells me. It was the first time our planet was photographed whole and entire, its mountains and deserts and oceans in clear relief. Clouds like tufts of baby’s hair after a bath, when you comb it, still wet, into ridges and whorls.

It is a snapshot in time — a cyclone forms over the Indian Ocean — but so much more. It is our own precious, fragile earth. And it was the last time humans would be in a position to photograph it. (Robots were in charge of subsequent lunar missions.)

Just coincidentally, the Writer’s Almanac informs me that today is also the birthday of writer Willa Cather, who said, “We come and go but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it — for a little while.”

When we see our planet from space, how can we not love it more?  Not just our own corner of it, but all of it. How can we not want to do everything we can to protect it?

Photo: NASA

Lost and Found

Lost and Found

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I thought I knew the way, so I headed out with no map, no directions, no GPS and no phone.

The first part was easy. Down Lawyers into Vienna. I knew that much for sure.

But when I turned into the neighborhood it was dark and alien. I recognized the median but not the turnoff. I drove slowly down the suburban lanes, turning every time I thought I’d found the road. But nothing looked familiar.

I realized then that I had never arrived at this house in darkness, only in daylight. In the light, the houses were large, solid, knowable. In the darkness they were too close to discern differences. More cars were parked on the street than I recalled. I drove so slowly I could have been walking, peering into windows with one eye while keeping the other on the road.

At one point I found myself retracing last Saturday’s local history tour. And then I laughed out loud. I can’t find my friend’s house but I can locate the site of an 1862 Civil War encampment.

It was then that I turned toward home. This time I knew the way: right on Lawyers, left on Steeplechase, left on Fox Mill.

When I pulled into our driveway, the porch lights were glowing a warm welcome. My heart leaped at the sight. I parked the car and walked inside.

One State

One State

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As I drive east today I’ll be thinking how if I were making this trek 221 years ago I would not be traveling through three states, but through one. Kentucky was part of Virginia until 1792.

Now these states are separate. But once they were part of the same large region that stretched from the ocean to the “first west.” One were their hills and valleys, one their rivers and streams. The mountain range that divides them was shared.

Yesterday I drove the back roads of the Bluegrass, hopping out of the car often to stick my camera between gate bars, snap photographs and, sometimes, just to sigh.

Once these two places, these two important places, these two poles of my heart — once they were one.

Home Alone

Home Alone

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The house at rest. Counter tops are clear; cups, plates, books, important envelopes that need to be mailed — they all remain where I put them.

I fall into the quiet slowly. Silence becomes a place I long for. Because it’s not really silence. Like the color black that is all colors, it is the presence of all sounds.

Our raucous family dinners on the deck; they are there. And so is last Thursday evening, when Suzanne and I  talked at the kitchen table as the room darkened around us. The girls’ younger selves are there, too, flitting around like house sprites, keeping me company.

I’m home alone.

Or am I?

Find a Place

Find a Place

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… I watch them, the creatures of a city I have dreamed, the flowering
of an ache to be at home …

These lines are from a poem called “The Flowering” by Glenn Shea, from a collection called Find a Place That Could Pass for Home, featured on today’s “Writer’s Almanac.”  The poem caught my eye because it’s about home and about London, where I’ve always felt at home.

I think of a city I have dreamed, and I see the canyons of Lower Manhattan, the hidden mews of the Village, the broad swath of Amsterdam heading north, the green lawns of Central Park, front yard of a nation.

I remember the grass there, its outcroppings of rock, the aroma of a summer subway, clanging of metal against metal, a fresh breeze from the river flowing across our roof. The haze of a summer Sunday, heading back to my little apartment, knowing I could never live in the city forever, that this place I loved would never be my home.

48 Hours

48 Hours

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To return home is to find your way back when you didn’t know you were gone. To return home is to see what happens when you weren’t looking.

What happens when you don’t know where home is?

That’s why I pay attention to the feelings that accompany arrival.

I’m in Kentucky for 48 hours. It isn’t long enough.

Welcome Signs

Welcome Signs

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Driving home from Kentucky last Sunday I was touched, as I always am, to see the “Virginia Welcomes You” sign. There was the cardinal, the dogwood, the almost childish renditions of our state bird and state flower. It’s almost as if — dare I say it, might it be? — that I feel like I belong whenever I see it?

A few months ago, in a subway-induced fog, I noticed a “Virginia Welcomes You” sign on the dark subterranean wall at the Rosslyn Metro stop, the first in the commonwealth when traveling west on Metro’s Orange Line. Was I imagining this? I checked the next day. It was definitely there. Now I look for it often on my way home from work. It’s proof of belonging, a whimsical touch.

This morning I ponder these two signs of welcome, these two welcome signs.

Photo: Wikipedia