A Walker in the Suburbs

Today we leave Madeira, a place set apart in so many ways. At a museum of photography a few days ago we saw a promotional film about the island that was made more than a hundred years ago. It had the choppy movements of early movies, and the narration was dubbed in later. 

There were the carreiros pushing toboggans down the hillside. There were men fishing, women embroidering, and flowers everywhere. Long-ago tourists were greeted with bouquets.

Things have changed since then, of course, but the warmth of the welcome has not changed. Madeira made us feel at home from the minute we stepped on its soil. Mostly because of the family and friends who make their home here, but also because of the place itself. 

The film was titled “Madeira: Pearl of the Atlantic.” Now I understand why. 

(Sunrise on our last full day in Madeira.)

I spot them from my second-floor aerie, and I spot them more easily now that trees are bare. They are perched high on the poplar or closer to earth (and to my window) on the black gum tree, where there is also a squirrel’s nest.

They seem little more than dots on horizontal branches, hard to detect until they fluff their wings or scratch their beaks and the movement gives them away. Sometimes they rustle in the bamboo and send a shower of leaves to the ground. 

Always when new seed fills the feeder they swoop down to claim it. I see one of them now, a cardinal resting in the azalea between feedings. 

Birds are my companions in thought, my most dependable distractions. 

(One of my favorite bird photos, taken on the way home from work long ago.)

Tomorrow I’ll board a plane for Washington state, bound for adventure: my first artist’s residency.

It’s a place and a time set apart for creative activity, designed for artists of all types — musicians, dancers, painters, print-makers, photographers, and, oh yes, writers. 

I’ve been keeping a packing list for weeks, mostly mulling over how many books I can take and still lift my suitcase. The answer: not as many as I would like. 

In less than 24 hours, though, I will have made my final choices and be on my way, heading west to a quiet cabin beside the sea. 

(Flying into Washington last May.)

A birthday of note this year, but aren’t they all? Isn’t every one of them precious proof that we live another day?

This morning I woke up to greetings from family and friends, dear ones I’ve known for decades. What richness! What a privilege to reach this, “the furthest exploratory tip of this my present bewildering age,” in the words of Annie Dillard. Even if it’s bewildering, maybe even because it’s bewildering.

He was a ball of fur on legs, a streak of black and white, contrast in motion. Copper was our daughter’s Christmas present, the dog she had dreamed of for years, and he was running away from us as fast as his little legs could carry him. He had slipped out of his collar and was making a break for the territory. He would do this often in the coming years.

Once again I’ll re-run this blog post, which I wrote eleven years ago. Merry Christmas!

The rabbits I wrote about last summer are nowhere to be seen now. The resident hawk has no doubt taken care of them. But there are plenty of rabbit holes around here — and I’ve been going down them to my heart’s content. 

On Monday, for instance, I spent the better part of an hour learning about the Italian composer Ottorino Respighi and his suite Ancient Airs and Dances. 

Other days I’ve plunged into the history of long-shot Kentucky Derby winners  or the geopolitics of the Iron Curtain. 

What do these topics have in common? Absolutely nothing … except that, for a few moments in the morning, I had time to learn about them. 

Last evening, working in a walk when the wind had finally died down, I strolled past a woman standing by her mailbox. She looked familiar … and she was still there a few minutes later as I had turned toward home. “Do I know you?” she asked. 

In the few minutes since I’d passed her I’d figured out the connection. “I think you go to my church,” I said. And yes, that’s exactly where we had seen each other.

In a small town, you often bump into neighbors at school or at the grocery store—usually when you’ve run in grubby from gardening and hope you won’t spot a soul you know. Not so with suburban living: the population is exponentially larger but the possibilities of chance meetings infinitely smaller.  

I treasure these “double sightings.” From them grow the connections from which friendship flows. 

(Even snow people like company.)