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Category: perspective

Backward Glance

Backward Glance

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I’m big on the backward glance, on analyzing what has happened, on figuring out from it what might be to come.

This does not go away when I’m at the beach. But it softens a little, like a once-crisp cracker at an al fresco lunch beside the waves.

At the beach it’s easier to see the back-and-forth of things, the ebbs and flows; easier to trust that all will be well.

I’m always looking for lessons, even from vacations. And that’s what this beach week is showing me: Clouds will pile up in the east, will show themselves as rain-makers by the dark slant beneath them. They will come this way, will empty and pass. And then … the sun will come out again.

Science and Miracles

Science and Miracles

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“We are not sure if this was a miracle, a science or what,” wrote the Thai Navy seals of the rescue they had just brought about. I would say the recovery of the 12 boys and their coach from a Thai cave  was all of the above, first the miracle, then the science, then a mishmash of both.

That the world’s attention could be riveted on those 13 unfortunate people, that help could flow in from all corners of the globe, is in itself miraculous. We’ve gotten used to these stories, a little girl falls down a well and we will move heaven and earth to retrieve her, that the wonder of it all, that one story so captures our imaginations that it leaps out from every other shred of news, can be overlooked. But it is a wonder.

And then there was the technical cooperation required to mount the rescue, the assembling of people and equipment, the science part, the daring escape. I think about my own limited caving experiences — crawling between two large slabs of rock in the dark, the beam of my headlamp on pocked stone, thinking all the while what it would be like to be pinned between them. No wonder we marshaled every bit of expertise we could to help the youngsters.

And finally, there is the communal joy that is bigger than politics, bigger than soccer, bigger than national pride. That’s miraculous too.

(Photo: Wikipedia) 

Yankee Doodle Dandy Day

Yankee Doodle Dandy Day

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In honor of Independence Day,  I’m running a post from July 7, 2010. I wrote it shortly after Mom and I watched the movie “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” That was Mom’s way to celebrate the 4th. And today I’m thinking about her … and even further back, to the time of George M. Cohan, a time of innocence and optimism.

A return to innocence may be a stretch … but on this July 4, 2018, I’m pulling for a return to optimism:

Here’s the post, slightly edited:

The firecrackers aren’t yet snapping and the flags aren’t yet flapping. What I’m thinking of is James Cagney as George M. Cohan in “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” I can’t stop humming “It’s a Grand Old Flag,” “Over There” or “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” And I can’t forget the sight of that powerful little man going into one of his tap-dancing riffs. He is the essence of jaunty, of sticking out one’s chin and plunging into life. Was our country ever that innocent and optimistic? I replay the final scene of that movie, Cagney dancing down the steps of the White House after telling his life story to President Roosevelt, and I think yes, maybe it was.

From a Distance

From a Distance

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As the country grows ever more politicized, reading the newspaper becomes an ever more fraught occupation.

I could dive right into op-eds supporting my views, and I often do, but today I didn’t want the echo chamber. I wanted what we don’t have, proof of wise heads.

So instead, I looked deep inside the front section. There was an article on how Congo has controlled Ebola: a sorely needed good-news story. Of all the nations in the world, Congo is the best at tracking the disease. One seldom hears that any African nation is “best at” at anything, so this was doubly good.

Then there was a bizarre piece on strife and lawsuits in the Buzz Aldrin family. His children think he’s losing it, so they have seized assets. He’s suing to have them back.

Buzz Aldrin, the article reminds us, is the second man to walk on the moon. He once described it as having a “magnificent desolation.”

Thanks to this phrase, I’m lifted beyond the Supreme Court decisions and retirements and the upcoming meeting with Putin. I’m looking at the blue marble. In my head, words to the song “From a Distance”:

From a distance the world looks blue and green
And the snow capped mountains white
From a distance the ocean meets the stream
And the eagle takes to flight
From a distance there is harmony
And it echoes through the land
It’s the voice of hope
It’s the voice of peace
It’s the voice of every man…

Round Number

Round Number

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Yesterday morning I hit a round number: 2,300. That’s the number of posts I’ve published since starting this blog more than seven and a half years ago. That’s a lotta posts!

What have I been blathering about with all these words, all these zeroes and ones? Walking and writing. Cities and suburbs. Work and leisure. Summer and fall. Observations and exhortations. Mostly, just noticing. There is some merit in that, I’ve decided.

And there’s gratitude (that word again) that the challenge of putting these observations into words hasn’t lost its luster over months and years.

Truth is, I love words. And when words add up to numbers, I like them, too.

Pep Walk

Pep Walk

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I love the pep talk, whether getting or giving. Those first minutes and hours afterward, lifted on a thin layer of inspiration that I know won’t last but feels permanent at the time, a high born of words and gestures, of understandings suddenly grasped.

But when there’s no one around for a pep talk, a pep walk will do.

A pep walk begins in desolation. The article you’re writing has no focus, the words are cliches. The work load is too heavy, no one can juggle this many projects. The child you raised is having troubles; she’s an adult now but when she hurts, you do too.

The reasons are legion, but the remedy is the same. Lace up the shoes, grab the earbuds, step outside. It’s a whole new world out there. Other people and their problems. Maybe the problems get all jumbled together and cancel each other out. Or maybe it’s just the act of walking, one foot then the other. Forward motion, with all that that implies.

All I know is, the pep walk works. It bolsters spirits, reveals solutions. It inspires.

Earth from Saturn

Earth from Saturn

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When the children were young and studying the planets, Suzanne decided she didn’t like Saturn. “It’s a show-off, Mom,” she said. All those rings, you know.

I’ve been thinking of Saturn the last few days as images of it were beamed back by the spacecraft Cassini, which plunged into the planet’s atmosphere on Friday, ending a splendid 20-year mission.

For decades Cassini has been enlarging our knowledge of the solar system, taking us to Saturn’s cool green moon Titan, and, with its Huygens lander, actually touching down on the moon’s rocky surface. Cassini discovered plumes of water vapor spouting from another moon, Enceladus, and made many other discoveries.

And then there were the photographs Cassini sent back. The rings and moons and other planets. My favorite is the NASA pic I’ve reposted here.  Earth is the tiny speck on the lower right-hand side of this photo.  Beautiful, yes — and very, very small.

Blue Sky Day

Blue Sky Day

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It was a blue sky day at the bay, a day spent with my brother and sister. This meant we could talk about Dad, and his habit of standing at the threshold of a doorway, stretching out his arms and saying, “Look at that, not a cloud in the sky.”

We joked that had Dad turned around, he might have noticed looming thunderheads. But he didn’t turn around; he ignored the clouds. He kept his gaze resolutely blue-skyward. An excellent trait — until you’re caught unprepared in a sudden downpour.

No matter, we loved him — and we carried umbrellas, learned to look for and deal with the rain and clouds and gloom.

Still, that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a blue-sky day when one is given to us.  And one was, yesterday — a glorious day.

Anatomy of a Headache

Anatomy of a Headache

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I am, unfortunately, headache-prone. I’ve learned to live with the dull aches and the sharp pains, with the early awakenings and the late nights. I don’t glorify these as migraines, but they can hang around for days. Sometimes they respond to ibuprofen and sometimes they don’t.

It’s a point of pride that I don’t give in to these headaches — but today I was wondering what it would be like if I did. Would I be one of those neurasthenic Victorian ladies, perfumed handkerchief and rose water, dabbing at my temples and wrists? Would I lie in a darkened room while someone (a Downton-Abbey-style ladies maid) brought me a cup of tea?

Not my style. But that doesn’t stop me from analyzing the headache, especially the one I have right now. Unlike the more typical vague throbbing, this one announced itself with a stab of pain between the eyes. I can pinpoint its arrival almost to the minute. It began sometime between 6:50 and 6:55 a.m., while turning right from Vale to Hunter Mill Road on my way to Metro and the office. One moment I didn’t have a headache, and the next moment I did.

Now I’m imagining another scenario: that the headache skedaddle as quickly as it came. I can almost feel it now: the pressure will vanish, the tightness will disappear. Ah, yes, I’m feeling better already.

As Morning Unfolds

As Morning Unfolds

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I left the house before six today, walked into a misty morning with piled clouds and a chorus of birdsong. The air had a pastel fullness to it and the light was worthy of Bierstadt.

On mornings like these I leave the music at home so I can better observe the day as it wakes, stretches, waves his arms and opens its eyes.

Today, though, the morning clouded up as I strolled, and fat drops fell. But before they could gain too much traction, the day reversed course once again. Now it’s gloriously sunny and green.

It’s what I’ve wanted to do every day this week as I sat five stories up in a shell of glass and steel — watch the morning unfold, and be inside it as it wakes.