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Tunnels of Reston

Tunnels of Reston

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It’s automatic: I always hold my breath when I walk through a tunnel. Too many years living in cities, where most subterranean sites reek of urine. 

But the tunnels of Reston smell only earthy or musty — and sometimes not even that, depending upon length and time of year. 

Which leaves me free to contemplate the road I’m scooting beneath, the traffic above and the crushed leaves below. The overpass and underpass. Two modes of travel, two ways of life. 

Reston believes in foot traffic, so it only makes sense that Reston believes in tunnels.

(One of Reston’s 25 underpasses.)

Running Water

Running Water

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It’s been a while since I’ve seen running water,  besides what I run through our taps. The streams in my neighborhood, the smallest tributaries of Little Difficult Run, have been dry for weeks. 

Yesterday I walked a section of the Cross County Trail that has a notoriously (to me!) difficult stone crossing. It should be dry enough to skip over, I thought, and decided to try it.

Turns out, that shady section of the trail is one of the few places where I’ve seen running water lately, where I’ve heard the music of liquid sluicing over stones.

I paused for a moment and took in the scene, the glare of sunlight on stream water, the tracery of shadows. I realized what I’ve been missing these last hot, dusty weeks. 

A Facelift

A Facelift

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A library becomes a sanctuary, its shelves and kiosks like the rooms and closets of home, familiar and well-worn.

Sometimes, worn enough to need a facelift, which is what’s happening at my library now.

The Reston Regional branch of the Fairfax County Library system shut down on Saturday. But I couldn’t let it close without a final look. 

I was there on Friday, wandering through the stacks, checking out a book, glimpsing the old place one more time before it’s transformed. 

Covering Ground

Covering Ground

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There is no clear trail around Lake Audubon. There are twists and turns, hidden paths and a bridge it took me years to find. 

But yesterday the pieces all fell together, the landscapes and the streetscapes. There were wooded straightaways and sunny patches. There was neighborhood walking — perfect for ogling lakeside houses I’d love to live in — and forest glades with dappled shade.

I saw anglers, paddle-boarders and dog-walkers. Everyone was up to something, and I was covering ground. The weekend torpor had vanished with the breeze. 

(Banana trees along the lake. Yes, bananas grow in Fairfax County.)

Ancient Artifact

Ancient Artifact

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I was stopped on my morning walk by a friendly neighbor. He rolled down his car window and asked, “Are you missing a Christmas tree ornament?” It’s almost July. Tree trimmings are not on my mind. I uttered something noncommittal. 

“Because we found one in front of your house, near where you might have left the tree for pickup. It was sticking out of the dirt there. A rocking horse?”

Well yes, there was a rocking horse ornament, metal with a looped string to attach it. Could it have escaped my multiple searches through the fir branches in early January?

It could — and it did. The ornament has, uh, weathered, shall we say. It looks like something from the 18th century, not the late 20th. But now it’s home again, thanks to a kind neighbor. 

Protecting Place

Protecting Place

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As I’m drawn further into the life of a town where I don’t officially live, I think about what I owe Reston. Though I can’t swim in its pools or kayak on its lakes, I do walk its trails and enjoy its ambiance without paying its fees.

There’s nothing illegal or immoral about this, but the film I just watched discusses those who enjoy Reston’s amenities without buying into its program. We live less than a mile from Reston but aren’t within its strict property boundaries. Still, I worship at a Reston church, donate staples to a Reston food pantry, and pay the higher, nonresident fee for a Reston yoga class. I’d like to do more. 

As I figure out how to do this, I think about what people owe place, the responsibilities that come with residency. It’s a topic I ponder often, this idea of stewardship, of protecting what is priceless. What can be more precious than hearth, home and habitat? And what can be more natural than wanting to protect them?

Another Way of Living

Another Way of Living

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Because of its strict property boundaries, I don’t live in Reston, but I walk on its trails, buy strawberries at its farmers market, and take yoga at its community center.  

For many years, I haven’t known where I live: My mailing address says Herndon, my kids attended high school in Oakton, and I commuted from Vienna.  You could say I live in the suburbs of northern Virginia, but for a person who cares about place, that’s always rankled.

Since the pandemic, though, I’ve been gravitating to the place that suits me best, and that is Reston, a community founded and developed by Robert E. Simon (hence Reston) 60 years ago. Last night I watched a film made to celebrate the town’s 50th anniversary: “Another Way of Living: The Story of Reston, VA.” 

To say it makes me proud is an understatement. It roots me, inspires me, makes me want to move a mile away just to live in Reston officially. I probably won’t do that. But I’ll walk its trails with more awe than usual. 

(The Van Gogh Bridge in Reston’s Lake Anne. More on the film in future posts.)

Blooming Where Planted

Blooming Where Planted

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For so long this has been a loaded phrase for me — “blooming where planted.” It carries with it more than a hint of compromise. Or maybe it’s wistfulness, that I didn’t stay where I was planted but moved several times as a young adult before settling where I did. 

And then there’s the fact that I’ve ended up in the suburbs. Heaven knows I carp enough about that.

But today, the angle of the light striking the grass on the lawns I passed, the scent of the air, rich with loam and honeysuckle, made me think that there could not be a much better place to be planted. And that whatever the mixed emotions with which I’ve traditionally viewed the saying, there is a nobility in trying to flourish wherever you are, in contenting yourself with the situation at hand. 

(Pebble people frolic along one of my favorite routes.)

Connectivity

Connectivity

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On a walk I took Monday and may take again today, I noticed how rich life feels when the path you are walking is not just an afterthought to a road but is a network complete unto itself. 

It leads from place to place, revealing parks and benches and fountains not easily seen otherwise. It has numerous intersections and junctions. You must know which way to turn or you will be lost, though not for long.

Such a trail has segments you recognize and enjoy: a few hundred feet winding among townhouses in the beginning, a wooded stretch, a ball field and little free library. Crossing one street, passing under another, and finally winding up in an urban village, complete with café, bookstore and community center. 

A walk from place to place is about more than exercise. It’s about connectivity. 

Listening Local

Listening Local

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We live close to one of the nation’s great symphony orchestras, but sometimes I like to keep my listening local — hyper-local, in fact. On Saturday there were two concerts within a 10-minute drive from the house: a community orchestra’s year-end performance and an organ and trumpet recital at church. The timing would be close: one began at 4, the other at 6. Could we take in both?

It was not only possible, but it seemed the best possible use of a rainy Saturday afternoon. The Reston Community Orchestra was trying out the last of its four conductor finalists, and sparks (and at one point even the baton) were flying as the orchestra galloped through two Mozart overtures, the Haydn Cello Concerto and Beethoven’s Second Symphony. 

Later, in the (post-vigil-Mass) sanctuary, the church’s new music director turned the organ around so the audience could see all its keyboards and stops. He and the trumpeter began with Handel’s “The Trumpet Shall Sound” from “The Messiah” and ended with Mussorgsky’s “The Great Gate of Kiev” from “Pictures at an Exhibition.” Can any two instruments sound fuller and more orchestra-like? I don’t think so. 

At least on Saturday, listening local was the way to go. 

(Members of the Reston Community Orchestra take a bow)