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Smelling the Roses

Smelling the Roses

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It’s been a short trip to the Natural State. I leave later today. Amidst the work I absolutely have to do, I find time to visit with people I don’t usually see. It’s what makes it rich, and it makes me think how shallow life can be when efficiency rules.

Dozens of times each year I vow to be less efficient, to smell the roses, to take life easier. And dozens of times I break that vow.

But I’m an optimist, so I think … maybe this time it will be different. It probably won’t be. I know that. But I can always try.

Highs and Lows

Highs and Lows

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A few weeks ago, the Arkansas River, which now flows placidly less than a quarter-mile from my hotel, rose and raged and overflowed its banks.

I was trying to imagine the flooding last night as I strolled along the river walk. There was a large hose, some matted greenery, but nothing else to give away the inundation that was. Instead, there was sultry air, graceful bridges, crepe myrtle in full bloom. 
It made me think about the changeability of the natural world, its highs and lows, of what Emily Dickinson described when she said:  “Nature, like us, is sometimes caught without her diadem.”
Up in the Air

Up in the Air

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Sooner or later, usually sooner, the modern-day traveler runs into a delay,  cancellation or other snafu. This time is was my turn. The flight that was supposed to get me to Arkansas Sunday night with time to check in, have a good night’s sleep and then slide easily in the work week ….  was cancelled.

Instead, I went back home Sunday night, left my bag checked at the airport and made my way to the local office yesterday morning … in a monsoon. Inches of rain an hour, wind blowing it sideways, puddles so deep they covered my shoes.

Even a quick dash across the street from the “tunnel” to the door of my building left me drenched to the skin … and of course I was wearing the clothes, shoes and socks I’d be traveling in until almost midnight last night.

No matter. The clothes dried, the new flights (both of them, to Chicago and to Little Rock) took off on time ,and my suitcase was waking for me, having apparently spent Monday in Little Rock.

Well, at least one of us did!

West of the Mississippi

West of the Mississippi

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I’ll spend most of this week in Arkansas, a place that was briefly my home decades ago and is the official headquarters of my employer. It’s a work trip through and through, but it’s also a change of scene, and will put me somewhere I enjoy being … west of the Mississippi.

Crossing the Big Muddy has always been a milestone in the long drives west. The river doesn’t evenly bisect the continent, but the spirit of the country changes on the west side of the river. It loosens its shoulders, drawls a little more. It’s friendlier, too.

I’m hoping this touch of the west will rub off on me a little while I’m there. Will slow me down and loosen my shoulders, too.

Rice Paddies Gleaming

Rice Paddies Gleaming

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Yesterday was a Monday on steroids. I kept feeing all weekend as if a vacation were beginning … even though I knew one wasn’t. I came to the office and dutifully wrote, edited and interviewed. But I was longing to be away from my desk.

So for today’s post, a mental vacation, a memory. Two years ago, I was preparing for a trip to Bangladesh. It was a daunting assignment. I was interviewing dozens of people, many of them victims of human trafficking. And, to make me even more anxious, I was leading a writing workshop.

It all worked out, led to experiences and friendships I will never forget. So today, I’m thinking of Bangladesh, of the people there who have so little but give so much. Of sodden green pond banks, of rice paddies gleaming and jute drying in the sun.

Grand Journey

Grand Journey

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Mom and Dad would have been married 67 years today. They made it to their 61st, which is quite a long run by modern standards. I bet I’m the only person remembering this today. Maybe not. My sister or brothers might be remembering it, too.

I was thinking a lot about their honeymoon when Drew and I took our road trip a couple weeks ago. Mom and Dad were married in Lexington, Kentucky, their hometown, but they took off immediately in an old Chevy bound for California.

The roads were barely all paved in 1952 — the interstate highway program officially began the next year — and though they were fine if they stuck to Route 66 … they didn’t always do that. They were prone to taking detours to “Kit Carson’s Cave” and other spots that piqued their curiosity.

Still, they made it to the West Coast, where they planned to start their married life. It was glamorous and exciting … but it wasn’t home. A few weeks later, they turned around and drove back.

It was the beginning of a grand journey together — and I’m thinking about it, and them, today.

Driving in the West

Driving in the West

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On Tuesday we drove from Moab to Denver so I could catch my afternoon flight. I took the first shift behind the wheel, as we left the red rocks and headed east.

Driving in the western U.S. is a completely different activity than driving here. The mechanics are the same, but the similarity ends there. The roads are wide open and speed limits are high (80 in Utah!).

I didn’t do much but hold the wheel, keep my foot on the gas and drink in the scenery. For the first two hours there were mesas and buttes and big skies. The Spotify music Drew found was the perfect accompaniment, especially the Jupiter movement from Holst’s “The Planets.”

In fact, the big brass and soaring melody seem to have been written not for the cold wastes of a celestial body — but for the awe-inspiring landscape I saw out my window.

At Arches

At Arches

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How to describe the wonders we saw yesterday — the sandstone arches and pillars and domes?

They seem to be designed for a Hollywood western stage set. And yet they were real: a rough beauty.

 Luckily, I was traveling with my brother, who among other fine qualities also happens to be a geologist. He could point out the striations in the rock and explain that Balanced Rock probably wouldn’t topple while we were standing beneath it — or anytime this century.

And as for the double arches, they would be there for generations of other tourists to stand beneath, and marvel.

Colorado Sunday

Colorado Sunday

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Springtime in Colorado, snow in the high peaks, streams running strong from the melt. And tucked away in the southern part of the state, the tallest dunes in North America.

Formed by wind and weather, the dunes are a natural playground. Dogs frolic, teens toss footballs, kids drag sleds up a steep slope and slide down.

It was a beach without the ocean, a hill without the pine trees. It was more like a mountain warm-up act, with snow-capped peaks in the background.

And afterward, there was a drive through a constantly changing landscape, ending with red rocks. More on those tomorrow.

Remembering Notre Dame

Remembering Notre Dame

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You tell yourself it’s just a building, not a person; that it was not an act of terrorism; that it’s silly to feel this way. But there is still something so sad about the fire at Notre Dame Cathedral.

Maybe because we already have so much destruction in this world, so much war and cruelty. Maybe because it is so beautiful and had survived so much.  Maybe because it has been with us so long and connects us with so many.

I find myself saying what we say in times of loss: How grateful I am to have seen the cathedral; to have climbed its towers and glimpsed its gargoyles; to have taken my children there; to have strolled through it as a young woman and a middle-aged one.

Once, long ago, I was ambling along the Seine on an April evening. The light was slanting low in the sky and throwing the old stones and the spire into high relief. It was a scene of incomparable beauty. I had no camera at the time, so I told myself, remember this, remember it always.  

I did — and I’m remembering it now.