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A Walk in the Dark

A Walk in the Dark

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By the time I took my after-dinner walk it was almost 9 p.m. The light had faded from the sky, and clouds obscured the moon and stars. A head lamp turned me into a roving Cyclops; I was alone in a bright, clammy tunnel. No music, no sunshine, the air heavy with the moisture of an impending shower.

 Don’t look at the cars or you’ll blind the drivers, Tom said, instructing me on the headlamp as I walked out the garage door. So I turned my head demurely whenever a car passed. This had the additional benefit of obscuring my identity. I didn’t need my teenager to tell me how dorky I looked (though she was glad to point it out). I knew that a headlamp and a day-glow safety vest would not  win me any beauty prizes.

But the outfit — and the effort — were worth it. They made it possible to walk in the dark, to prolong the day, to pretend, just for a moment, that it was a sultry June evening — instead of a stifling September one.

Night Swim, Again

Night Swim, Again

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It was almost nightfall. The air was balmy, and a crescent moon grew brighter with every stroke.  I’ve been swimming a lot this summer but never this late. Our dinners have been long, our evenings full. Last night was the first chance to paddle through the mysterious waters of the suburban pool after dark.

There was the same dignified man I remember from last year, doing his quiet breast stroke. He hasn’t changed, though the guards have grown younger. There too was the windmill slowly spinning and the faintest breeze ruffling the leaves in the high branches of the oaks. The thwunk-thwunk of the tennis balls in the adjacent court was the only sound I heard, other than an occasional splash.

I end the day tired and calm. An advantageous combination.

Walking to Bedtime

Walking to Bedtime

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It stays light until almost 10 here on the western edge of the eastern time zone. Which means that if you take a stroll after a late dinner, you are walking until (almost) bedtime.  Cicadas give way to katydids and bats dart from tree shadows into a still bright patch of sky.

It’s cooler now, only 95 (!) with a hint of a breeze.  The hum of air conditioners is punctuated by the shoosh-shoosh of sprinklers. Roosting birds chirp as they dip into the short-lived puddles.

The evening is so calm and inviting that I stay out longer than I’d planned. Longer than my shoes are meant to go. But I’m drawn farther by the sight of orange-lit houses opening their windows to the street and by tree trunks darkening into nightfall.

I walked from day into evening; I walked to bedtime.

Long Evenings

Long Evenings

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After dinner, almost dark — I work in a quick walk around the neighborhood. The sounds of the day mingle with those of the night. I hear a catbird settling in a maple tree, and, at the same moment, a chorus of crickets from a hedge beside the road.

The peepers are gone now but tree frogs are already serenading us. Wind chimes and soft music waft across the street from our neighbors with a front porch.

In a few weeks the pool will be open and the sun setting even later. Long evenings soothe and invigorate. We can live without them — don’t we prove it every winter? — but it was hard last night to imagine how we do.

Moonscape

Moonscape

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I wasn’t going to get up for it, but I’m glad I did. At around 3 a.m. I put on clogs and coat and walked into the backyard. Suzanne and Tom were already up, their heads tilted back, binoculars in hand. Copper was running circles in the snow. And up in the sky, the pale moon wore a red veil, a smudge of unearthly color against the white.

It was the lunar eclipse — on the same day as the winter solstice. The last time these two events overlapped was 1638. It made for a cold, eerie, magical night. I half expected to see a sleigh and reindeer in the sky. I’ll have to wait a few days for those, I guess.

Midnight Oil

Midnight Oil

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I’m a morning person, at my best when the sun is rising and dew is on the grass. But sometimes the thoughts of day settle best at night. Sometimes, it’s only when everyone else is asleep that I can put the day to rest, can concentrate on a task, can finish the chapter or paragraph or journal entry. Today has been like that. We’re in Kentucky, visiting with family, fixing food, working on a project. My mind is a jumble of words and emotions and things to do. But one by one, the doors close, my mind clears. The words flow, my keyboard rattles, the familiar rhythm. Soon I’ll be spent, I’ll read a few minutes and fall asleep. Maybe sooner than I think.

Open Window

Open Window

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Last night’s respite from midsummer heat gave us the excuse to turn off the air-conditioning and throw open the windows to the night air.

Fans whir, crickets sing, a faint smell of loamy earth wafts through the house. By the middle of the night the fan has sucked in enough cool air that I pull the comforter up around my chin.

It’s the best kind of chilly, air that is moist and moving and full of sounds and smells. I’ve missed it this summer.

Night Walk

Night Walk

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It’s tempting with the long light of almost-solstice to think the sun will never go down, that there will be no night. So last evening we took a woods walk that started at 8:30 and ended when we could scarcely see the path in front of us. We walked on instinct, our feet as sensors, the knowledge of the trail in our heads and in our soles. Soft darkness rolled in, the ferns and ivy blurred, our vision shrunk to the brown outline of the path we walked on. Birds settled themselves for the night. I fell behind the others, listening for the moment when day became night. I thought for a second that I heard it. But I was wrong. It had already happened; it was too quiet to hear.

There is a Morning

There is a Morning

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“Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day?
Could I see it from the mountains, if I were as tall as they?”

These lines rolled through my head last night as I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. What got me going? Unsettled dreams, our upcoming travels (what they call “good stress”), or just the normal wear and tear of daily life that frays the spirit enough to set the ends flapping in the wee hours, waking us with their clamor. As usual, I shifted position scores of times, made mental lists, fretted over words said and unsaid. I didn’t get up and read; I was tired enough that I hoped to be drowsy again momentarily. But the moments became hours. I did, however, drop off again eventually, so that I can at least pretend to have been asleep all night, so that I can answer Emily Dickinson’s question, “Will there really be a morning?” with “Oh, yes. There is a morning, all right. And it comes much too soon.”