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Category: place

Manhattan Monochrome

Manhattan Monochrome

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The clouds moved in and gave the photos from Roosevelt Island a monochromatic moodiness. But they didn’t spoil the views of Manhattan, which are primo from this two-mile strip of land in the East River.

There’s the United Nations building on the left and the Chrysler Building and One Vanderbilt faint gray in the middle of the shot. There are skyscrapers made of steel and glass and masonry. There is the city in all of its heft and all of its of splendor.

I lived in New York City for five and a half years and never stepped foot on Roosevelt Island. I made up for it yesterday. 

It’s Baaaack!

It’s Baaaack!

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Where to start, except to say that this place I once lived, this place I once feared had fallen prey to the emptiness and ennui that plagues many cities these days, has not only survived, it’s thrived. 

New York City is back … and it’s better than ever! Or at least that’s my humble opinion, influenced no doubt by a spot-on day of walking from east side to west side, uptown to down. Others might disagree, might say it’s dirtier, more crime-ridden. And I wouldn’t argue, given my tourist perspective. 

But as a place of great energy and drive, where people of all types rub shoulders with each other, where sirens blare, horns honk, street music sings, it cannot be beat.  

Big Apple Bound

Big Apple Bound

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It’s been a two years since I took in the Big Apple, so I’m heading up there today, to walk, visit with a dear friend, and soak up the big city vibe. 

Though I’ve traveled far and wide since then, it still seems like the place of places to me, where all roads lead. In my case, train tracks. But then, a lot of tracks lead there, too. 

I’ll do what I always do in any city, but especially this one — I’ll put as many miles on my old tennis shoes as I possibly can. I’ll become, at least for a few days, a walker in the city. 

Night and Day

Night and Day

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Last night, after the kiddos were rounded up and their weary parents pulled away from the house, heading home, I noted the miracle that’s so easy to ignore this time of year, the great gift of evening daylight. 

Family activities postponed my morning walk, but there was still (barely) enough light to take a late stroll. It had been awhile since I took this walk on the downwind side of the day, and I couldn’t help but notice how different it was. 

Yellow lamplight glowed through windows. Late birds rustled in the trees. Sprinklers made that tst, tst, tst sound. I was the only walker on the road. Houses and lawns that look ordinary at 8:30 a.m. look positively fetching 12 hours later. 

With walking, as with so much else, timing is key.

Another Word for Travel

Another Word for Travel

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We spent much of yesterday in Discovery Park, exploring Capehart Forest, the West Point lighthouse and a steep trail that connects the two. A bald eagle soared above us.

West Point is one of 18 active lighthouses in the state, and the point of land it sits upon has been a gathering spot for thousands of years. As the largest park in a city of vistas, this place offers a stunning array of views to contemplate. 

What an apt name for a place of long history and tradition. Discovery: to be discovered, to find something unexpectedly in the course of a search. Another word for travel.

The Renegade

The Renegade

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As the semester ends, the deconstruction begins. Random print-outs are tossed or tidied. Papers are filed. Library books are gathered and returned to Georgetown.

Since I live nowhere near Georgetown and haven’t had class on campus all year (all via Zoom), this is a big deal. I was so proud of myself that I had dropped them off a few days before they were due, combining their return with a trip into D.C. on Saturday.

But yesterday, my bubble was burst. A stray had hidden itself underneath another book on my desk. Luckily, it can be returned … by mail!

(This wasn’t the renegade volume. I remembered to return this one — but only after I removed every sticky from every page.)
Of Roses and Crowns

Of Roses and Crowns

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Over the weekend, a day bracketed by rituals. One ancient, the other “only” 149 years old. 

I woke up at 6 a.m., early enough to catch much of the coronation of King Charles III.  The choirs, the sixth-century prayer book, the procession, the golden carriage. A glimpse into the Middle Ages.

And then, at 6 p.m., the Kentucky Derby, with its come-from-behind, 15-1 shot Mage. More rituals: the call to post, the starting bell, the breathless commentary of the Run for the Roses. 

We measure our lives by rituals and routines, but I’ve seldom experienced such an oddly juxtaposed and striking pair of them.

(Photo of King Edward’s crown courtesy Wikipedia)

Feeling the Pull

Feeling the Pull

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Writing and weather has kept me mostly inside for the better part of two weeks, and I’m feeling the loss of woods and sky and birdsong. 

Late yesterday’s walk was a reminder of just how much. The bamboo forest. The creekside trail. Everything green and glowing from the rain and chill. A new tree down to clamber over. 

It was a pleasure to tromp through it all. And this morning, as I watch bluejays dart and a fox scamper home, as sunlight pools in the shady yard, I feel the pull of the outdoors again. 

(No, this was not taken in the Virginia woods. It’s an Irish robin posing on the isle of Inishmore.)

  

An Adventure

An Adventure

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Today, to avoid traffic, I plan to drive 20 or 30 miles out of my way, to etch a trail up and over rather than down and across. To take a country road rather than an interstate. It sounds crazy, which is why I’m calling it an adventure.  

I wonder if anyone has studied the miles people drive to avoid sitting on highways. If not, I propose the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area as a prime location for research. With two states plus the District of Columbia, one river and too few bridges (once you’re out of the city), our neck of the woods is filled with idling cars and fuming motorists.  

Tell us, please, what we can do about it … apart from having “adventures,” of course.   

(Evening rush hour on I-66)                                                                                                                                               

Thin Places

Thin Places

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I picked it up from the library’s new nonfiction section, intrigued by the title: Thin Places: A Natural History of Healing and Home. I wasn’t disappointed. Keri ní Dochartaigh’s memoir is a cry of pain, a poetic rendering of human suffering, as she turns her personal experience of Ireland’s “troubles” into a love song for white moths, ocean swims and her damaged island home.

With a Catholic mother and a Protestant father, Dochartaigh didn’t belong anywhere, a truth that became even clearer after her childhood home was firebombed. She never felt safe growing up, and the grief she carried as an adult almost drove her to suicide. 

But Dochartaigh found solace in the very place that wounded her. After leaving Ireland as a young adult, she feels called to return to her hometown of Derry, arriving just as Brexit is threatening a hard-won peace. 

Dochartaigh takes comfort in the natural world. “There are still places on this earth that sing of all that came and left, of all that is still here and of all that is yet to come. Places that have been touched, warmed, by the presence of something.”

The thin places she finds hold her, hollow and hallow her. She finds in them a reason to go on.