My piano and I are simpatico. When I don’t play, it glowers; when I do, it shines.
Proof of our being in sync: I had no sooner stocked up on distilled water than I noticed the flashing light that tells me when the piano’s humidifier needs filling.
The piano has made me more aware of indoor humidity or lack thereof. Of outdoor humidity I need no reminders. I live in a region of high stickiness and temper my warm-weather activities accordingly.
But the dry air that keeps my tresses from frizzing is not good for my favorite instrument. The piano thrives in a moist environment. Which means I probably do, too.
The last two mornings I’ve awakened to a dense fog, a softened world. No hard edges, no horizon, like the fuzzy innards of a favorite sweatshirt.
When I look out the window I see the back fence but nothing beyond it. My boundaries are narrowed, and for once I’m not complaining. A foggy morning comforts just-opened eyes, soothes winter-worn skin. It asks no favors.
Yesterday I was out and about early in the fog. I walked around Lake Anne, marveling at how little I could see, marveling too at how the lake became an Impressionist painting.
Today, with the faraway blocked, the close-at-hand takes center stage. I watch a pair of cardinals frolic in the witch hazel tree.
Word comes from bud watchers that the Tidal Basin cherry trees will bloom later than they have in years. The sustained cold weather has set them back to a more typical blossom time in early April.
It seems fitting, given the heaviness of world events. It seems right that spring should hesitate. Yes, we are winter-weary, but why should we bask in sunlight and flowers?
For that reason, I’m enjoying these last few cold, rainy days. They suit my mood and, dare I say it, the mood of the world. Let us hope for a quick end to the war. Let us hope for a spring we can truly celebrate.
Just because we don’t look for it on these frigid days doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I noticed winter shade on my last walk around Lake Anne. A filigree of darkness in the light. A refuge from glare.
The deciduous trees don’t produce it. They cast a sharp shadow but offer no place to hide. But the hollies and magnolias still make it, the pines and arborvitae, too.
In wintertime, my eye is trained to look for shadows, long and lean, but there is shade, too, a place of safety, even in the cold.
I thought of this phrase all day yesterday, an unseasonably warm one. It popped into my head when I stepped out the door in the morning and when I was walking a trail in the afternoon. And then, in the evening, I met someone who had it tattooed on her wrist.
The message was clear. Carpe diem: seize the day. In the film “The Dead Poet’s Society” the teacher played by Robin Williams delivers it as a command. He shows his students photographs of their predecessors, then in their prime, but lost to war. “Food for worms now, boys,” he tells his wide-eyed students. “Carpe diem. Seize the day.” And so they do, with mixed results.
Today is a carpe diem day too, with temperatures in the 50s. The warmth may be fleeting. Make the most of it. Seize the day.
(A box of chocolates. Another way to seize the day.)
It’s a day to celebrate not just the Magi’s visit to the baby Jesus but all epiphanies, the revelations and aha moments that keep life interesting. How to define the aha moment? I do it liberally.
Take yesterday. I was walking to an appointment at an eye doctor’s office four miles away. I’d never done this before but I was fairly sure I could access the building by stepping from the sidewalk into the multi-level parking lot. It was a bit of a gamble, because if I couldn’t, I was facing a long detour, but I left myself enough time to make it work.
The first aha moment was the cold wind from the south, but that just hastened my pace. The next was realizing that I could take off my solar-powered watch and hold it in my gloved hand during the hour-long stroll, giving it a good charge. (It’s an old timepiece and charging it is tougher in the winter, since it’s often tucked up under a sweater.)
When I reached my destination, not only was the parking lot accessible, but a tiny trail led me there. Ten years of driving to this office for annual visits, and I finally walked there. It took most of an hour but I could do it. An aha moment for sure.
Three epiphanies — small ones, to be sure, but lovely just the same.
(A single forsythia flower blooms in January: another aha moment.)
Though I used to pass Arlington National Cemetery on my way to work, the national cemetery I’m thinking of this Veterans Day is Camp Nelson, tucked away in the rolling hills of central Kentucky. My parents are buried there.
Visiting their graves has opened my eyes to the beauty and value of our veterans cemeteries. There are 170 of them in the U.S., most managed by the Department of Veterans Affairs. Though I’m not sure of their current upkeep (have they been affected by the shutdown?), every time I’ve visited Camp Nelson I’ve been impressed by its beauty and precision.
This is not your romantic, moldering cemetery. There are no tall oaks or mossy stones here. Strict rules govern the placement of flowers or flags. National cemeteries are regulated, spit-polished. They are about community and esprit de corps.
Through the years, I’ve found this more comforting than I thought I would. After all, death is our common fate, the great democratizer. National cemeteries don’t hide that fact. In fact, they celebrate it.
I had only enough time to do the two-mile loop in my neighborhood, the most pedestrian of pedestrian experiences. It was mid-afternoon, and warm. My feet were dragging. And then I thought to look up.
The sky was shockingly blue, so much bluer than the sky you see in this photo, and the foliage so much greener. The orange tree, which I notice turns earlier than the others every year, added contrast.
I caught my breath at the loveliness of it all. What palettes lie hidden in even the most familiar landscape? I could have been staring at the luminous hues of an Impressionist garden or the weathered face of a Dutch master.
It’s not like I don’t look up when I walk. But this time, it was a revelation. It was as if I hadn’t seen the sky before or the trees framing it.
It was just an ordinary walk, but I looked up, and that made all the difference.
Yesterday, sitting at the best desk ever, I looked up and saw a hummingbird. It was only there a minute, making several passes at the feeder, perching briefly on the thinnest of climbing rose twigs, before flying off to parts unknown.
Was it a straggler? A johnny-come-lately? A bird passing through from more northern climes? I don’t know. But I did relish the chance to look again at this amazing creature, to marvel at its bravery and its derring-do.
I thought then, as I often do, that you never know. I thought hummingbirds were gone for the year, that I wouldn’t hear that distinctive whirring sound until next April. But I heard it days later.
You never know when you might look up and see a rainbow or a hawk in flight. You never know much of anything, really.
The season has turned, mornings are cooler, but I still haul my laptop out to the best desk ever. That would be the glass-topped table that’s tucked under the rose arbor on our deck.
It may not be the place to sit when deep concentration is required. There’s too much to look at and listen to: the poplar whose leaves are just starting to turn at its crown, the liquid sound of blue jays calling to each other, the hawk crying from the oak next door. During rose season an errant petal may float down and land on my lap. But I love sitting here. I feel inspired and enabled. I seem to draw strength from the green, growing things around me.
I’ve worked in cubicles and carrels, at wide tables, and once, for a few months, in a converted closet. My office desk, where I park myself when it’s too cold to sit outside, has a similar view — more expansive since its higher up but less immersive since it’s inside.
But today, and I hope for a few more weeks, I’ll be working at the best desk ever.
