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Category: landscape

Moonset

Moonset

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I woke early yesterday, as I do these days. Woke to a bright world, a full moon, and a persistent one. Even though the sky was lightening in the east, the moon was hanging on, slightly mottled with a haze of clouds, but still there.

It was strong enough to throw shadows on cars and houses — but soft enough to preserve the pre-dawn hush. It shined on a sleeping suburban world, utterly still, with frosted leaves that glittered in the grass.

In much of the world, moonlight matters. It’s the difference between seeing and stumbling. I thought about that as I walked west, into the moonset.

Salute to Sunrise

Salute to Sunrise

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My classical radio station has begun playing a salute to the sunrise. Every morning at 7:14 (can it really be that late now?) or, eventually, 6:05 (ah, that’s better!), you can hear a flourish of strings and a fanfare of trumpets. Look out the window, the host says, at another glorious sunrise.

I like this because it reminds us of a meteorological miracle, a fact that can be ignored or noticed. We can stay in the darkness or turn toward the light. We can keep our eyes down, staring at our phone, or we can lift them up, to the heavens.

It’s easier to look down. Not just because gravity pulls us this way, but because we are busy. We have work email to check, social media to scan. But looking up just takes a minute, and in that minute we can reorder our day.

A Different Day

A Different Day

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A week ago today I awoke in a tiny house in the Blue Ridge Mountains. On my to-do list: write, read, and savor the landscape. Not bad as to-do lists go.

Today’s list is looking a lot more businesslike: Editing articles, writing headlines, having meetings. It’s still not bad as to-do lists go, but it’s significantly less creative than last week’s occupations.

But how much depends on what we make of it? I write from my fifth-floor window seat (loosely construed, this term “window seat” — all it means is that my chair is pulled up close to the window) and the sun glints off the curved corner of the building next door. Leaves fly in the brisk wind, and they are gleaming too, as another day, a different day, begins.

Miles and Miles and Miles …

Miles and Miles and Miles …

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On the second day of my getaway I wrote in the morning and explored in the afternoon. About 20 minutes from where I was bunking, there was an entrance to Shenandoah National Park’s Skyline Drive. I’d been there before — it’s less than 90 minutes from my house — but I hadn’t been there in years, so I was looking with fresh eyes … with, dare I say it, eyes of love?

Virginia is for lovers, you know, though it’s taken some of us a while to love the state in which we live. But this reluctant Virginian was swept off her feet yesterday. First of all, the weather was perfect. It was almost 60 degrees, clear and bright. There weren’t many people around, and those who were there drove slowly, seemingly as much in awe as I was.

I did a couple of quick hikes, but what grabbed me most were the views. Skyline Drive runs along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains, so you don’t just have one vista, you have dozens. At some point I realized that if I didn’t stop pulling over at every overlook I would never get home.

I looked at the ridges, one behind another, as close to infinity as we are likely to have this side of heaven. In my head was that song from The Who: “I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles.”

It reminded me of flying; there was the same above-it-all-ness, the sense of seeing more clearly because we can see farther. Real world problems didn’t go away, but for a few hours they seemed smaller and more manageable. They seemed miles away too.

Look to the Rainbow

Look to the Rainbow

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I knew what it was before I saw it. I knew it from the jaded commuters standing slack-jawed outside the Metro station, then grabbing their phones and snapping away. I knew that on this October Tuesday, our gray day of rain was being rewarded with a rainbow. And not just any rainbow — but a complete arch that spanned all of Route 66.

The rainbow was spotted in other parts of the region, too. I have a reliable rainbow-sighting report from Reagan National Airport, though no pots of gold were found.

The longer I looked at the rainbow the more the colors revealed themselves. At one point there was even a double bow.

What heartened me most were the rainbow-spotters themselves. Not much will slow commuters from reaching home in the evening, but the rainbow was doing just that. I snapped half a dozen shots of the heavens on my way to the car … and I wasn’t the only one.

Threatened Tidewater

Threatened Tidewater

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I’ve certainly been posting a lot about a three-day-trip, but the Virginia Tidewater is a magical place … and a place now threatened by Dorian.

The National Hurricane Center predicts flash floods, high winds and a strong storm surge in southeastern Virginia and the southern Chesapeake Bay. That means that the bucolic landscape we toured last weekend could be drenched and battered today.

It’s one reason to scotch dreams of home ownership in that area, which I’ll admit were percolating in my brain as we spied one gorgeous inlet and quaint town after another.

Probably better these days to lust after cottages on safer, higher ground. But oh, there is something special about landscapes where land and water meet.

End of the Road

End of the Road

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It happened often while traveling in the Northern Neck. We’d follow the road to a cove or point only to find that the pavement literally dead-ended into the water. No parking lot. No gracious circle in which to turn around.  Just land … then water.  Sometimes there would be a sign. The one above for the Sunnybank Ferry was a bit misleading. It wasn’t closed for lunch but closed for the weekend. Still, what can you expect? It’s free!

Other roads were more like this one at Windmill Point: a clear signal (as if you needed one) that if you want to go further, you’ll be needing fins or flotation devices.

The road to the village of Weems ended at this overlook — well, not exactly an overlook, more like a backyard with a world-class view. You can see the big bridge to the Middle Peninsula from here.

When land meets water, roads and cars take a back seat to boats and bridges.

ROVA

ROVA

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It’s the morning of a four-day weekend and we’re off soon to Virginia’s Northern Neck, a spit of land that lies between the Potomac and the Rappahannock.

It’s a land of marsh and water fowl, of water vistas and sailing ships. Known for its oysters and wineries — also the birthplace of five early presidents.

I know far too little of this state that I call home. To be a resident of Northern Virginia (NOVA) is often to be far less familiar than one should be with the Rest of Virginia (ROVA).

Today we put that at least partially to rights.

Moving Image

Moving Image

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When I woke up this morning I was dreaming I was snapping a picture. I was a passenger in a moving car, and the terrain we were driving through was like an ancient Chinese painting.

There were human-sized hills, a winding stream and perfectly coiffed trees. There was a sense of scale that made me think I could capture the landscape quickly from a vehicle.

The dream probably augurs nothing. But if it does, could it mean that I’ve become less of a words person and more of an image one? It’s happening to many of us these days.

Of course, there’s the fact that I’m writing about this experience, not illustrating it. And I’m doing it on an outmoded platform that is anything but image-friendly.

Whew! I’m probably safe — at least for the time being.

Holding On

Holding On

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What helps the beach state remain? I’m asking myself that question today, as I feel it slipping away.

I was off to a good start on the way home: a plane so empty that each passenger had his or her own row of seats.

Then a late-day landing that showcased the Washington Monument and the Capitol, the graceful spans across the Potomac, the compact graciousness of the place.

But today there was the long commute into Arlington, the work call that came in before I reached the office, the emails, the to-dos that piled up when I was gone.

Welcome back, they say.  I try not to listen. I hold onto the beach state for dear life!