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.
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.
