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Falling Stars

Falling Stars

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The Perseid meteor shower had good press this year. Some reports said the celestial event would produce up to 200 shooting stars an hour. This raised all kinds of hopes and set off visions of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.”

But this number didn’t take into account the ambient light of the megalopolis, the heavy tree cover and the lateness (earliness?) of the hour.

Still, I managed to see a few streaks of light flash across the late summer sky.The first couple seemed a trick of the eye — a blink, a quick gleaming stitch in the firmament. But the last couple were bonafide star blasts. They illuminated not just the night sky, but all the possibilities it offers.

Not “Starry Night” — but not bad.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Beach Grass

Beach Grass

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Still thinking about the beach — the fine white sand, the walks along the shore, the sunsets and early mornings, the downy plovers like so many bits of fluff.

And thinking about the entry to the beach, too, the green bulwark one passes through on the way to the strand.

For Atlantic beaches it’s a stroll past dunes and dune grass. But in Florida’s semi-tropical clime there are beach grasses and scrubby palms and maybe a spray or two of bright pink bougainvillea.

The path through the grass is not just a prelude and change of scene. It is, I like to think, a place for mental readjustment, too. It’s where I shed the landlocked me and prepare for the freedom to follow.

The Beachcomber Amble

The Beachcomber Amble

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What is it about a beach that brings out the kid in us? Grownups build sand castles and play paddle ball, lie still for hours in the sun, live outside of time.

Purposeful striders lose their momentum. They don’t so much walk as amble. They take on the investigatory zeal of a two-year-old examining each stray stick and leaf.

As the tide recedes they stroll along the beach, picking up clam, coquina and cockle shells. They study them, pocket them or put them in a bag.

If a storm has just moved through, they might find intact sand dollars, lovely pieces of ephemera that somehow last through time and tides.

Then again, they may find nothing much at all, just a few shells that are precious because of the walks they took to find them.

Siesta Sunset

Siesta Sunset

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For Atlantic beaches I rise early to catch the sunrise. But for Gulf beaches, there’s no need to join the dawn patrol. The big show is in the evening.

About 7:45 or 8:00 p.m., there’s a little rush hour here of folks walking to the strand, some with drinks in hand, all ready to watch the big orb drop slowly into the surf.

Most carry their phones, others have cameras. My first night here I happened upon a sunset beach wedding. Though I usually like to people-watch, for Siesta Key sunsets I keep my eyes trained on the sky. Most people do.

What is it about elemental pleasures that so soothe and satisfy? I’m not sure. But I do know that vacations awaken our ability to seek them out and be part of them again.

Before the Gloaming

Before the Gloaming

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It was almost 7 p.m. when I parked the car on Soapstone Drive. There are pull-outs there for trail access, for bluebell viewing in April and sultry strolls in July.

This was for the latter. It was impromptu and it was divine.

I slipped off my jacket, laced up the pair of spare running shoes I keep in the back and took off on an almost empty Reston trail.

I walked east, and the air sung around me. Crickets were tuning up for their evening chorus and the swamp radiated with heat and insect buzz.

Fifteen minutes in I joined the Cross-County Trail, my first time on it in months. I walked across a bridge that smells of creosote, spotted a stand of Black-eyed Susans in the meadow.

It was Thursday. Light was golden before the gloaming. I was almost home.

Heavenly Surprises

Heavenly Surprises

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Twice within 12 hours I’ve been surprised by heavenly bodies. Well, not completely surprised. I knew each time that there was a sun or a moon in the sky. But surprised in that I wasn’t expecting to glimpse them when I did, and that perhaps because of this — or perhaps not — I was swept away.

Last night I walked in perfect air, perfect temperature, a glorious midsummer evening. I admired the light as I walked east, thought about how fetchingly it struck the great old oaks and maples, how beautifully it bathed our neighborhood.

But when I reached the other end of Folkstone, I caught my breath. There was the sun, the source of all this beauty. Even though I’d been walking in its light the whole way I’d somehow forgotten. And there it was, the setting sun.

This morning it was the moon that surprised me. I hadn’t realized it was almost full, and still up, when I took my early walk. Once again, a turn to the west took my breath away. The globe was suspended in a sky of pale blue, centered between banks of trees. A spectacular sight. A morning treat.

It is, perhaps, a sign of my discombobulation, these heavenly surprises. But maybe not. Maybe it’s just natural beauty at work.

Aerie

Aerie

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I work on the fifth floor of a large building that overlooks a train track, a highway, a street and National Airport. Windows on the other side of the building have a perfect view of the control tower and take-off and landing. Given that I used to work on the ground floor, this is a welcome change.

There is a light, airy and aerie-like feel to being up this high, a sense of being the first to spot the weather when it changes. And…  about an hour ago I saw a bit of sun peak through the clouds.

I was intending to report this news immediately, of course, but work intervened. And now, alas, the sun has gone away. But it was there, I’m sure of it. And the weather forecasters assure us that that sun returns in earnest in a couple of days.

Meanwhile, I’m glancing out the window whenever I have a second. Right now the only light is see is what’s reflected back at me. But I’m hanging on and hoping for more!

(OK, not up quite this high — and with a decidedly less pastoral view …) 

Still Life with Shells

Still Life with Shells

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When I returned with the great haul from Chincoteague I soaked the shells for a week. The bucket was so heavy I could barely pick it up. But over the weekend I mustered the muscle and shook out each whelk, rinsed residual sand from its core, and put it on the glass-topped table on the deck.

And there they sit, rain doused rather than surf doused, collecting tree pollen and stray sticks. The damp weather clouding the glass, giving the shells a soft-edged frame.

Though I took no care in their arranging, they easily fell into a tableaux. A companionable collection. A still life with shells.

Brackish

Brackish

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Brackish waters belong to both the sea and the land, and Chincoteague is surrounded by them, by  estuaries and lagoons. In fact (I read on Wikipedia, just checking my terms), the Chesapeake Bay, which surrounds these tidal lowlands, is the largest estuary in the U.S. It’s “the drowned river valley of the Susquehanna” — something I never knew but will remember, due to its poetic turn of phrase.

But the word and concept of “brackish” sets the mind to spinning. How often do we run into situations that are a little of this and a little of that; that would be, if transferred into salinity equations, brackish?

Most of the time, I’d say. And that makes the brackish beautiful, which it most certainly is. So even though one is tempted to turn up one’s nose at brackish water, to think of it as sluggish and unhealthy, I warmed to it at Chincoteague: the mud flats, the marshy reeds, the waters shining in the late-day sun.

Marsh Sunrise

Marsh Sunrise

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I was out early this morning for a bike ride around the refuge and a walk on the beach. The sun was rising, and though I missed its first rays on the strand I caught them on the marsh. It was more stunning, if that is possible.

I came to the beach for a few days to clear my head and punctuate what came before from what comes next. In that I was moderately successful. A lot has come before, after all.

But I came, most of all, for the place, for its beauty and rhythms and peacefulness. I’ve tried to capture it in words and photographs and mindset. And now, I’ll do my best to take it back.