A Walker in the Suburbs

The grandchildren have departed, leaving behind a ball, barrette and undies. That’s nothing compared with some of the things that we’ve found as soon as the vans leave the driveway: bottles and diapers and pacifiers. Special cups that must be retrieved before the next school day. Much-loved blankies.

Today’s get-together fell into place organically. It’s not only June but Juneteenth, which means days off for our brood. The group lunch wasn’t planned but seemed to make sense. Babies tag-napped upstairs, the teenager worked the trampoline so the littlest ones weren’t hurt, and the adults had a few minutes to chat among themselves.

I write after watching the U.S. beat Australia 2-0 and a guaranteed advance to the next round of the World Cup. A steady breeze makes for pleasant company, as leaves wag in the wind and a lovely day morphs into evening.

(Above: another perfect June day, this one last year in Groton, Massachusetts.)

I had another post idea for today, but I hadn’t finished it before I left for an early morning appointment. Now back home, I have a different idea, a riff on this mid-June, almost mid-summer, practically-perfect-in-every-way day.

Start with the 75-degree temperature, the ample sunlight and the breeze, which is just enough to stir the poplar leaves. Add in the smell of grass from a new-mown lawn and the song of wrens and robins.

Since I was out early, I worked in a walk-and-talk with a friend and her sweet doggie. We ended with chai lattes at a neighborhood cafe.

Practically perfect or completely so? Now that I think of it, maybe the latter.

The news, never good these days, has taken a turn for the worse. International relations are in a shambles. What’s a body to do? Take to the deck.

It’s one of the first work-outside mornings of the spring and I’m back in business at my outside location. A brilliant jewel-toned azalea flames in front of me. To my left are two more azaleas in lavender and pink. In the distance, the soft trill of a woodpecker. And yes, a leaf blower, too. In other words, a perfect suburban morning.

So even though my work today is difficult, nature, as always, is a balm. I fall into it as if into a featherbed. It cushions and softens the tasks and my mood.

April 14th is early for working outside, but I’ll take every day I can of my deck desk.

Last night I stood outside while my grandchildren played with the neighbor kids, rode bicycles and scooters, shed jackets in the early evening chill. A timeless ritual they don’t yet know is timeless.

I saw in them my own dear girls, their tangles and pigtails, trikes and tractors. And deeper still, my own young self, playing Red Light, Green Light in the warm Kentucky dusk.

If we’re lucky enough to live a while, we see the patterns and repeats. Timeless activities are blessed by repetition. We find meaning in their concentric circles.

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.)