A Walker in the Suburbs

During the period of my life when I commuted downtown, I remember enjoying these early hours. Waking before 6, leaving for Metro in the darkness, the winding two-lane roads quiet and still. I’d relish the gloaming, easy on the eyes. Often, the sun would rise as I was driving, a faint light in the east.

Now I watch day break from my upstairs office. Orange-leaved trees emerge from darkness, first the witch hazel, then the crepe myrtle. The time change has given me back this pleasure. My eyes pop open at 5:30 instead of 6:30.

I like getting a jump on the day. I like being a lark. I’m just more of one now.

A cloudy day, the sky seems wrapped in cotton wool, blunting the edges of this new time, of the day that would already seem later than it is were there a sun with which to measure it.

Walking home yesterday, our nearest star already prepping for a 5:06 setting, I marveled at how comfortable I feel on the Reston trails. Crushed acorns underfoot. New vistas from leaf fall. A buck chasing a doe. A bird sound I don’t recognize — maybe a visitor on his way south.

As the season turns, I feel a sense of coziness in the woods. Each bent branch a hymn of praise. Each stretch of shining lake water a benediction.

With fewer light-filled hours to be outside, each one is more precious.

I remember a spring years ago when the March temperatures stayed stubbornly in the 40s (the highs, that is) and it seemed as if the forsythia would never bloom. This was in the old days, before I’d planted crocus and miniature daffodils, bleeding heart and buttercups. Back then, the forsythia was our only bellwether.

It must have been a long winter. The girls were young, maybe not yet in school, and we had been cooped up inside for what seemed like forever.

Every day we would go out in the chill and check the forsythia buds. Maybe we checked them too often. Maybe they were the watched pot that never boils. Whatever the reason, I remember the jubilation when they finally burst into bloom.

This year, that same forsythia bloomed almost without my noticing it. A result of warming weather patterns — or speeding time?

As the year winds down today, I plan to be scribbling about it in my journal. It’s been a ritual for decades, begun when my typical New Year’s Eve plans involved babysitting for the family down the block.

When I was younger, I would take these retrospectives quite seriously, composing a highlights reel of the year I’d just lived. I’m a little more jaunty about New Year’s Eve entries now, though I don’t know why I should be. Each year life becomes more precious.

I think it’s because I realize that the beating heart of a year is not to be found in a list of what happened and how I felt about it. What matters are the aha moments: Witnessing a spectacular sunset. Falling asleep to the gentle patter of rain on the roof. Glimpsing on an adult child’s face the exact same expression she’s had since birth.

These are the moments that matter. And today, I’ll be celebrating them.

Yesterday unwound slowly, with a small baptism and lunch afterward. As the afternoon continued, I thought about the tasks that waited for me back home: schoolwork and prep for Thursday. I have lists, and lists of lists.

But it was so nice to sit and visit, to let the kiddos run in and out of the house, their cheeks rosy with the cold. To listen, to chat, to laugh.

Back home, I realized there was daylight enough still to walk. Then, after dinner, I realized that I still had time to do the reading and viewing required for Tuesday’s class. In other words, I’d completed as much in that compressed schedule as I would have over hours.

I often wish I could do less on Sundays, not just for religious reasons, but because it’s good to pause and take stock, to have one day a week that’s different from the others. Yesterday, without planning to, I almost did.

I woke up this morning, glanced at my calendar, and found … nothing. Oh, there are a couple of errands to run, but there are no trips, excursions, parties or concerts. Nothing I absolutely have to do. 

How lovely nothing can be. Because nothing is potential: a lazy afternoon in the hammock, an hour of weeding, or, what’s more likely, a few hours of reading and study. (Taking two classes this semester has me hopping!)

But right now, for this moment, nothing is exactly that. And I’m going to revel in it.