A Walker in the Suburbs

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.)

Passover began two days ago. Ramadan began two weeks ago. Today we celebrate the holiest day in the Christian calendar.

Powerful prayer storms are being stirred up around the globe: clouds of incense,  spiritual readings and focused intent. It is a time of turning inward, in search of grace, and of turning outward, in search of strength.

May the synergy of these holy days create a force for good to foster peace and prosperity around the world. 

The very idea of it seems far-fetched. It is too early for spring, too early for a break. But break time is is, at least for the student part of my life. 

There was no class Tuesday evening, though I prepared for it anyway since my break, which starts today, will get me home just in time for Tuesday class next week. 

Because as it turns out, I am taking a “spring break,” though one I wish I wasn’t. I’m heading out today to Kentucky for my cousin’s memorial service: a talented man gone far too soon. 

The trip will have its share of sadness, then, but also its share of joy, visiting with family I don’t often see. A break in many senses of that word: a road trip, a respite, a departure from the ordinary. 

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlock

Bearded with moss and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight

Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline

Today we explored the oldest stand of old-growth forest in Maryland, a place of deep shade and filtered light. The destination was Swallow Falls but the journey was also an attraction: a hike through pines and hemlocks more than 300 years old.

I imagined what these trees have seen, the ancient twinning of their root systems. Being in their company made me want to talk softly, to concentrate only on breathing the air they purify, on striding beneath their canopy.

The quick and surprising death of our parakeet Bart on Wednesday brings to mind this quotation from Jeremy Bentham: “The question is not, can they reason? nor, can they talk? but, can they suffer?”

The poor bird never seemed as chipper as his cage mate, Alfie, and back in March, I feared Bart was on his last legs. But he perked up and lived several more months to nibble and climb and spar with Alfie.

There was little clue to what ailed him, but I hope his suffering was brief. It certainly seemed that way. 

Now Alfie is left alone in the cage. He’s outlived two other budgies, and we’ll look soon for a new bird to join him. 

Birds are creatures of air and movement and song. And that’s the way I’d like to remember Bart. 

(Bart in a recent photo shoot.)