A Walker in the Suburbs

Yesterday the law school where I work lost a dear and long-treasured colleague. My office was responsible for pulling together the announcements of her death and building the In Memoriam page to record the notes that began pouring in the moment people heard of her passing.

This morning I was reading these lovely tributes. Over and over again they testify to what matters in life: the care and concern for others. This was a woman who touched everyone who knew her. She was always there with a laugh or a roll of the eyes. She was not smooth and perfect; she could be as frazzled as the rest of us. But she kept on trying until the end.

I notice that the comments come from a complete strata of the place: from the childcare center and  the board of visitors, from the library and the accounts office, from the student life people and the professors.

When someone this good goes (and long, long before her time; she was only 45), there is a huge void. And in the void there is a reminder: This is how to live your life.

Yesterday’s walk took me past a couple of ponds. One of them sports a new fountain, a spray of water that gives the old farm pond an aura of glamour and glitz.

But the explanation is far more humble. It’s to aerate the lagoon, to make it healthy, to remove the green slime that fouls the waters of the murky pond next door.

Airflow is not only healthy for humans; it’s good for water, too. So even though I preferred the pond in its still state, I’m glad to see it’s looking clear and scum-free.

Bubbles matter. Flow matters. For ponds and for people, too.

A late start for me today, and a late start for school in Fairfax County this year. September 8 is as late as it ever can be. But it’s happening soon. I know this not from the clock or the calendar but from the rumble on the street.

They’re baaack. The big yellow buses. I just saw two of them roll down the road behind the house and another one has been parked on a neighborhood side street for the last week and a half.

How can school buses still incite stomach-curdling anxiety after all these years?

Must be powerful, this back-to-school dread, even though once the first day or two was behind me I always enjoyed the back-to-school earnestness of September. I think it’s not just the start of school but the end of summer that the buses signify. The end of late nights and freedom. The beginning of tight shoes and regimentation.

But … the shoes had to be tight in the beginning or they’d be too loose later on. And the days had to be regimented or we’d all be a bunch of uneducated hooligans. So as much as I hate to say this …  They’re baaack — and it’s about time!


(Big yellow bus from the inside. Courtesy Wikipedia.)

All through this crazy week, as I read page proofs, wrote proposals, attended meetings and planned a panel, the rose bud was swelling, opening, preparing to bloom.

I came out on the deck this morning, still exhausted from a string of challenging days, and almost gasped when I saw the flower.

What I was doing suddenly seemed so unimportant. This is what really matters. That soil, water and light can come together to send forth this one perfect flower.

When there’s no time to stretch my legs for real I take a mental stroll. A trail that vanishes through a stand of  oak, passage to another world of fern and creek. I imagine an opening at the end of a field, slip through a curtain of branches. Sometimes the trail curves back upon itself, leads nowhere.  That’s when I’m feeling especially stressed.

Other times it opens onto a placid woodland, and my heart beats more slowly even though I’m standing in a crowded Metro car or about to lead a panel (which I will this afternoon). I conjure up favorite trails,  follow their sections from beginning to end: the entry, broad and leafy; the fair-weather crossing over Difficult Run; the confusing stretch where I sometimes get lost; the final burst of boardwalk put there by another devoted woods walker.

Then I realize that the calmness of the woods walk can be called back to mind any time, can be imbibed like a last-minute hit of caffeine or cup of chamomile. It’s my secret weapon. I’ll be using it today.

It’s still dark when I wake now, and it remains that way almost until I leave the house about 6. Early darkness can be such a comfort — a cover, a foil, a way to keep the eyes half closed until the destination is reached. Pools of light like mirrors but tree shadows barely emerging.

On the other hand, I know what this early darkness bodes. Fall and then winter. Cold winds, snow and ice. Crunching down the driveway at 6 a.m.

So let’s just linger here a while. It’s still summer, though heat and humidity are abating. A few tomatoes linger on the vines and the cicadas are singing their songs.

A morning walk without music. Earphones left behind. Open to bird song and cricket chirp and the dull roar of faraway cars.

It reminded me of an orchestra tuning, the chorus of jays, cardinals and sparrows. From the woods came the cackle of a pileated woodpecker, its cry like an inland seagull and the rat-a-tat of its beak against tree trunk providing the percussion.

There was no plan to the sounds, no organization, but they were harmonious just the same, like meadow colors that never clash, like lily pads that dot a placid pond.  The improbable harmony of nature.

The hummingbirds are stoking up for their big flight south. And they are loving their new food, a homemade syrup that appeals to them more than the bottled, electrolyte-enhanced stuff ever has.

Yesterday as I was working on the deck I watched a pair of males dive-bombing each other to claim the feeder. Zoom, zoom, they roared, barely missing me. One pugnacious little guy chased away an innocent chickadee who had wandered into the area; another did battle with a bee.

These animals weigh less than a penny but within their muscled bodies is the same greed, fear and joy that drive us all. The need to claim territory. The endless search for sustenance and security.  An appetite for life.

The last few days have been a whirlwind, every minute filled. What’s gone missing is what never should — walk time, think time, coming-to-terms-with-it-all time.

This will change soon, so I’m hanging on.

In the meantime, though, I realize how much I need to be outside in the elements, striding through them. It’s a combination of movement and light, of rhythm and pacing. It’s the shrubbery, the flowers and the muddy path. It’s every house I pass and every tree.

But insights come from absence, too.

It will be one of those days. Work piled on my desk. A couple of blog posts percolating that will take too many minutes to execute. 

Time for a placeholder … because there’s not much time for anything else.

But placeholders serve a purpose. They widen the moments, hold time in check. They keep us open to possibilities. And of course, they deserve a pretty picture. Just because.