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Wandering Home

Wandering Home

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As much as I extoll the practice, walking in the suburbs is largely for exercise and mental refreshment, for perspective. It’s difficult to run errands or visit folks without jumping in the car.

But yesterday I had time to amble through the woods to meet a friend, who lives on the other side of a county forest.

On the way there I had my eye on the clock, picking up the pace to reach her house more or less when I said I would. But on the way home I savored the green splendor of the stroll, birds ruffling the underbrush, stream water pouring over and around a flat rock.

It felt like rain, clammy and portentous. I took my time, reveled in the mood and the moment. I wandered home.

Wiki Woods

Wiki Woods

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It has much in common with a wiki site, this woods I walk in; it’s the work of many. The invasive plant eradication I mentioned yesterday is part of it. But even the paths themselves are forged and kept alive by many footfalls. Given the amount of undergrowth out there, it wouldn’t take long to lose the trail. 

And then there are the bridges, a motley crew if ever there was one: A clutch of bamboo poles, handcrafted spans made from planks and two-by-fours, and then the places where it seems people just laid down a few pieces of lumber. 

Some of the bridges are for crossing Little Difficult Run, which meanders through the woods, steep-banked in spots. But others are for navigating the hidden springs and muddy parts of the trail. All of them necessary. All of them welcome. 

It takes a village to make a woods walk. 

Hammock Season

Hammock Season

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It’s the first post of the hammock season, which starts early this year. I rock sideways on the contraption, using it more as a rocking chair than a chaise lounge.

I perch above a bumper crop of wood poppies and within sight of several spectacular azaleas. To my right is a lilac bush that seems likely to produce more blooms than ever this year, more blooms than ever being a relative term, of course. I’m hoping to crack the double digits. 

The poplar above me is barely leafing. Ferns are unfurling. A breeze ruffles the foliage and rings the wind chimes. Yesterday, there were 26 people in this yard. Today, only me. It’s a mellow Easter Monday. Let’s hope I can stay awake long enough to do some homework. 

Time for Talking

Time for Talking

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Thinking about time this morning, about the way it gets parceled out, about its being, in the end, the only true currency. Since time passes more quickly as we age, that should mean our wallets are slimmer, too. 

Yet mine can feel so full! Not everyday, of course, but on days I spend with dear family and friends. Maybe it’s because a good talk puts me in the eternal present, when time-passed and time-yet-to-come slip away and all that matters is the time-that-is, the words and the moment. 

Which means that having as many good talks as possible is a worthy goal. Making (yes!) time for them, enjoying them, and afterwords, savoring their insights and their joy.

Mourning Copper

Mourning Copper

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When a human being dies there are rituals and ceremonies, ways to process the passing. When a pet dies, not so much. But I’ve been touched beyond measure by the calls and messages from family and friends that have comforted us these last several days. 

The outpouring heartens me — and tells me how important animals are to us. It reminds me that we homo sapiens are not alone in this world, that we share it with many creatures, and that we could do worse than  look to them for a model of how to live. 

Copper did not complain in his final days. He suffered silently and took life as it came. Yes, he could be silly and rambunctious. Yes, he tested our patience at times. But you always knew where you stood with him. He was always completely and utterly himself. 

So just as we grieve people by recalling their uniqueness, what they brought to the world and how we might emulate it, so do I mourn Copper. 

Sharing the Trail

Sharing the Trail

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The Capital Crescent Trail. A Monday afternoon that felt like a Sunday afternoon. A jumble of humanity — and mammal-anity, too, since there were plenty of dogs on hand. 

Without realizing it, I went into auto mode. That’s “auto” as in automobile, glancing over my left shoulder before “changing lanes”  Cyclists use the trail, too, and they don’t always sound their bells in warning.

Sharing the trail sometimes means walking defensively. 

Another Way

Another Way

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Walking and talking — such an ancient practice. Almost as ancient as walking, bipedalism, itself, and oh so delightful. 

Over the weekend, with family visiting, I’ve been reminded of this all over again, how naturally one falls into the rhythm of common footfall and how naturally this footfall lends itself to the exchange of words, thoughts, confidences. 

Although I’m usually a solo walker, and happily so, I don’t mind being reminded there’s another way.

Michael Gerson: 1964 — 2022

Michael Gerson: 1964 — 2022

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The world lost a great columnist and thinker yesterday when Michael Gerson died of cancer. Though I’m not an evangelical Christian Republican, I fond much to admire in Gerson’s columns, especially the ones about faith.  I was not the only one. The tributes are flowing in. 

In 2019 he spoke at Washington National Cathedral about his battle with depression, which had hospitalized him only weeks before. Though he credited medication for helping him turn the corner, he also spoke of “other forms of comfort,” including “the wild hope of a living God.” 

Those who believe, he said, know that life is not a farce but a pilgrimage, that hope can “grow within us, like a seed,” and “transcendence sparks and crackles around us … if we open ourselves to seeing it.”

Gerson didn’t just write about heavy stuff, though. Last summer he described his new Havanese, Jack, as a “living, yipping, randomly peeing antidepressant” and declared “I’ll never live without a dog again.” He never did — but now Jack, his family, friends and readers will have to live without Gerson.

I’ve written very few fan letters in my life, but last May I wrote one to Michael Gerson. He’d written a column that acknowledged a return of the cancer he knew would end his life, and I wanted to let him know that one reader, this reader, had taken much comfort from his words. He was kind enough to write me back. But it’s in his published words that I will remember him best, like this one from 2017:

If the resurrection is real, death’s hold is broken. …  It is possible to live lightly, even in the face of death — not by becoming hard and strong, but through a confident perseverance. Because cynicism is the failure of patience. Because Good Friday does not have the final word.

People of the Path

People of the Path

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In my neighborhood, I might know their names. There’s Peter, whose long arms swing like windmills, and his wife, Nancy, who has been walking regularly for decades now. I’ve seen  Arturo not only in this area but also on the Reston trails. I could name Eileen, Wendy, Maureen, Dave, Doug and many others.

But for every person I know there are hundreds more anonymous fellow travelers. Dog walkers and young mothers with jogging strollers. Long-distance striders who carry water bottles on their belt, like gunslingers. They are short or tall, plump or lean, fast or slow. 

Some folks don’t look up or acknowledge contact; they’re lost in thought. Others catch my eye from far away, wave and smile. 

But in one way we are all the same. We are people of the path. 

Thank you, Mr. Epstein

Thank you, Mr. Epstein

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I read recently of the passing of Jason Epstein, an editor and publisher who launched the paperback revolution. When he was 23, earning $45 a week and just scraping by in the publishing trade (I can relate!), he proposed to the higher-ups at Doubleday that they publish the classics in soft rather than hardcover. 

His bosses listened, and Doubleday came out with Anchor books, which provided the works of  Lawrence, Stendhal and other greats for as little as 65 cents a title. Epstein edited Roth, Mailer and Auden, and helped found the New York Review of Books, but it’s the paperback idea he’s known for most.

Before the early 1950s, paperbacks were reserved for “lowbrow, escapist fiction,” the obit said, so this was a novel idea. And it worked! The new line sold briskly, and what became known as trade paperbacks quickly became a profitable arm of the publishing business, much beloved of students and others who wanted a library of classics but couldn’t afford the hardback versions.

So now when I’m moving yet another box of books or cramming one more paperback onto an already-crowded shelf, I’ll say, with only the slightest hint of irony, “Thank you, Mr. Epstein.”