A Walker in the Suburbs

The door was round and red, ornate and stylized, but it did not invite entry. In fact, it did just the opposite. I hesitated at first to step inside, because beyond the door all was darkness. Darkness on a warm, bright, late-summer noon.

Who knew bamboo trees could grow so close together? Who knew they could shut out the day? Had a path not been plotted between the plants, the forest would have been impenetrable.

But there was a trail, and as I made my way along it, I touched the smooth trunks, marveled at the tangle of leaves that hid the sky.

There was no way to get lost in the grove. I needed no trail of pebbles or breadcrumbs. Before long I was back in the brightness. Will all of us be so lucky? I hope so.

(This post titled with apologies to Arthur Koestler, whose novel Darkness at Noon depicts an even grimmer era.)

The rains have stopped, which means not only a return of sun but also of shade. I saw some spectacular specimens on yesterday’s long walk on the Reston trails. In fact, some of the patterns made me stop in my tracks, pull out my phone and snap a shot.

What contrast, what texture! It reminded me of the shade during the eclipse, the tiny crescent-moon shapes into which it was carved.

No eclipse yesterday, of course, so the textures all came from leaf wag and leaf meal, from earth and pavement, from the filter and the canvas.

I wake these days in medias res, a Latin phrase I remember from my study of The Odyssey in high school. It may not yet truly be “in the middle of things” — 7 a.m. isn’t that late — but it feels that way with so much light pouring in the front windows.

Wasn’t it just weeks ago when waking at this hour felt like getting in on the ground floor of the day? Not anymore. I feel like the party’s half over by the time I open my eyes. Sunrise at 6:14 and ever earlier through the next couple of months.

And so begins the season of light. It began weeks ago, I suppose, but I was too busy to notice. Now I have time to marvel at the way it slants in the house early in the day, making shadows on the wall, splashing us with warmth and well-being.

It’s not easy to sleep late these days. But why would you want to?

A power outage yesterday left us in the dark for several hours. It happened late afternoon, shortly before sunset. I used stored power and outdoor light as long as I could, writing on this machine (almost fully charged!) and sorting clothes — a long-postponed task — by an upstairs window.

But there came a point when darkness was inevitable. I did all those silly things you do when suddenly deprived of electricity, like flipping light switches. Then I lit a candle, played the piano and embraced the 18th century.

What sticks with me now is looking outside at the houses around us. A couple have generators so they don’t count. But the others were indistinguishable in the darkness. It was a blank landscape, deprived of familiar landmarks and human warmth.

How I’ve come to count on the porch light, the lamp in the window, telltale signs of human habitation. They keep us company in the dark. I miss them when they’re gone.