A Walker in the Suburbs

An encouraging study came to my attention recently, one that makes me feel better about those times when I can’t remember why I walked into a room.

The paper, which was published in the journal Perspectives on Psychological Science, posits that changes in the aging brain aren’t necessarily a sign of decline. They are a new developmental phase, one that’s focused more on prioritizing wisdom than forming new memories.

Apparently, brains rely less on the hippocampus region and more on the frontal cortex as they age. While this shift has often been interpreted as compensating for deterioration, this new research suggests that it might be a more positive adaptation that allows us to pass knowledge on to the next generation.

I want to believe this idea because it makes me feel better about every word I can’t retrieve. But it also makes sense. I have gotten better at seeing the big picture. Details are important, of course, but they can also distract.

Wisdom isn’t highly appreciated these days. I’m glad to see it’s getting some love.

(Wisdom helps us see the forest and not just the trees.)

This morning, for the first time in more than six weeks, I did not tip back my head and squeeze drops of medicine into my eyes. Drops are a part of many cataract surgeries, or at least they were in mine. I’ve gotten used to the routine, the slight sting that tells me the fluid has actually hit the target and is not going to run down my cheek.

Also, and more to the point of this post, I’ve grow accustomed to checking the box on the handy chart the surgeon’s office supplied. Doing this has reminded me how much I like checking boxes. It must be the sense of completion I enjoy, of “mission accomplished.” And then there’s the tidying-up, organizational aspect of it all.

Imagine the fun of ticking off a box first thing in the morning. I’m barely awake but I’ve already completed a task. It’s enough to make me coast the rest of the day.

Checking boxes makes me think I’m in control. And even though I know I’m not, sometimes it’s fun to flirt with that illusion.

Something in the air this morning said fall. I’m not sure what it was, a thinner atmosphere, a brisker breeze, the few leaves that have fallen making a collage on the driveway.

In springtime, change starts at the top of the trees and works its way down. I look up to see where things stand.

In autumn, it’s the reverse. I look down at the path, the pavement, to notice the acorns, whole and crunched, the scrim of leaf-meal that collects along the trail.

It’s kind of like “spring ahead, fall back,” only in directions instead of time. “Spring up, fall down.” Something like that.

A walk yesterday in air so thick I felt wrapped in cotton wool. One of my favorite trails has become less shady as trees have aged and toppled. It’s the perennial story here as the old giants teeter and fall, the ones in our yard like losing old friends.

I thought yesterday on my walk that the path I used to think of as mostly shady is now partly sunny. Our backyard is like that, too. More patchwork than monotone.

Nothing wrong with this. It’s just a matter of shifting focus and expectations. It’s a loss … but also a gain.

Cataract surgery number 2 was yesterday, and I’m getting used to my new eyes, to this second sight. It’s been less than 24 hours, so the verdict is still out, but already I know a couple of things. My house needs a good scrubbing and I’d forgotten how vibrantly colored the world can be.

The scrubbing will take care of itself. Or, actually, I will take care of it. And likely I’ll post about that too, when I get around to it.

What I want to write about today is how blind one can be to gradual change. It’s hard not to take my progressively cloudier vision as a metaphor. What other crusty exoskeleton am I building simply by living my life? Am I quicker to worry? To judge? Am I less likely to roll with things?

There’s no quick fix for these accretions. But there are books to read, ideas to explore, and family and friends who will, I hope, point out the ossifications when they appear, if only by an arched eyebrow and a quickly uttered, “are you sure?” I hope these guardrails are in place for me and that I provide them for others.

And then, there are miracles like cataract surgery, this second sight, to remind me to stay loose, stay limber, to look, see, question, and learn.

Fairfax County schools started yesterday. When the girls were younger, the beginning of school marked the end of summer. Over the last week I’ve observed young families return from vacations, kiddos shoot hoops at the end of the cul-de-sac and play flashlight tag after dark, cramming in last-minute bits of fun.

As I watched, I felt in my bones that familiar dread, the pit in the stomach I had as a kid heading back to school, and later as a mom, watching one more summer end. Yes, the children would no longer be underfoot, but I mourned the lack of freedom that entailed.

But yesterday, I was feeling exempt from that dread. This is not to gloat but to celebrate. To revel in the fact that it’s still summer. Cicadas still sing from the trees. Breezes still waft through the (now-open) windows.

I feel so lucky that the beginning of school no longer signals the end of summer. In fact, the warmth often continues through September and into October. Through no meteorological sleight-of-hand, just a shift in perspective, I’ve gained two more months of my favorite season.

Speaking of waters running freely, I had a chance Friday to walk across the Key Bridge, which spans the Potomac River, connecting Georgetown with Roslyn. I was carrying about 25 pounds of books on my back, the bounty of my recent trip to the Lauinger Library.

It was hot, and I was overdressed. It was the end of a long day. But walking Key Bridge is always an adventure, and I was glad to be doing it again.

What I had forgotten — what I always forget — is that walking Key Bridge is scary, especially heading south, without the distraction of the Hilltop looming ahead.

As always on the bridge, cars are zooming toward me and waters are swirling beneath me. There is no way out but forward.

I think, in the end, that’s why I keep walking Key Bridge. It reminds me that putting one foot in front of the other is often all we can do.

(Heading north toward Georgetown on the Key Bridge)

A library book has arrived and I will pick it up today. I contemplate the quaintness of this concept. Knowledge between two covers. Information not available online. A book I can’t access digitally but must travel through space to retrieve.

I consider the practicalities. I will tack this onto another errand. I’ll check out other books, too. Why waste a trip on just one tome? I will bring a backpack and an umbrella. I may also stop at a bakery near campus that sells exquisite baguettes made with flour imported from France. I hope to return home with sustenance for mind and body.

The analog world — it used to be all there was. Now it can feel like a sideshow.

(The only surviving original copy of Beowulf, photographed at the British Library in May.)

A violet by a mossy stone/Half hidden from the eye!/Fair as a star, when only one/Is shining in the sky.

On a late walk a few evenings ago, I left by the back gate and was stopped in my tracks by a pale pink flower lying on the leaf litter, a thing of beauty I would not have seen had I not walked that route.

I stooped down and picked it up, tried to right it, found a stick to bolster the top-heavy plant. I didn’t know what it was at first — a friend eventually figured out that it was a spider lily — but that didn’t matter.

It was a beautiful object tucked away, blooming only for itself and whoever might see it. Showy enough for a grand garden but decorating the woods instead.

Most of us know people like that, don’t we? Wordsworth did. The violet he describes is a metaphor for Lucy, a maid who “dwelt among the untrodden ways.”

In the words of another British writer, George Eliot, “Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing.”

But these women, these people, these flowers — they bloom anyway. They may be half hidden, but (and maybe because of this) they are completely themselves.

The other day an old airline ticket showed up in the basement. This is not entirely remarkable; many things show up in the basement. But the ticket sparked thoughts and memories.

I noted, first of all, that this was one of those old-fashioned billets, thin, partially carbonized sheets of paper — so official. There was no QR code, no digital file in a digital wallet. This was a ticket stamped on September 30, 198_, printed on someone else’s paper. On the left side you can see those little cut-out circles that indicate it was brought to life on a tractor-feed mechanism. The top and bottom are perforated. Did I buy this at a travel agency? By calling the airline? I don’t remember.

A closer look revealed that a round-trip from Newark to Cincinnati cost only $121.00 in 1982. I had to do some sleuthing to determine that this was a ticket from 1982 because although both day and month are noted, the year was only stamped faintly along the side and the second digit was hidden.

To determine the year, I flipped through my journals until I found one that solved the mystery. I visited my hometown of Lexington, Kentucky (flying through Cincy) from October 8 – 12, 1982. On October 9, I explained why in my journal:

This morning I woke up to the sound of birds’ wings flapping. Not to bird song but to the soft fluttering of bird feathers. You can hear an occasional chirp if you live in New York City, if you’re in Central Park and can find a place far enough away from the screeching brakes or the low rumble of the A train. But you can never find a place silent enough to hear the delicate flutter of birds’ wings. I came home, among other reasons, to hear the flap of birds’ wings, to pause long enough to listen to the soft sounds of nature, to the faint cries of my imagination. It can’t always sing out over the distractions of the big city. It needs silence and open sky.

All of this from finding a few old pieces of paper in the basement.