A Walker in the Suburbs

They visited us on Saturday, several of them, including a persistent pair that hung out on the deck railing, the feeder or nearby branches. At the slightest sound (especially when I opened the window to take their picture), they would flutter away.  But I waited — and they returned.

Maybe they were driven here by the northwest wind. Or more likely the suet — a high-calorie treat to fuel their winter rambles. I hope they checked out the real estate while they were here: there are a couple of dandy bluebird houses in the neighborhood, and this time of year they’re open for takers.

Mostly I wondered where they had come from and where they were going. I’d like to think they were the proverbial bluebirds of happiness, come to pay us a visit on this cold midwinter day.

As snail mail becomes extinct, the handwritten, hand-addressed Christmas card becomes evermore precious.

For years, maybe since we’ve lived in this house, I’ve displayed them on the mantel. They are a crucial part of my holiday decor.

Every year different, every year the same. Reds and greens. Birds and trees. Stables and stars. Snowmen and wise men. They warm up the hearth and dress up the house.

What they do best is remind me of the people who sent them — family and friends near and far.

The light these days feels thin, stretched — a blanket too short to cover my toes. But it’s all we have, this light, so sometimes I walk twice, early and late, my breath a cloud, my feet warming to the pace, drawing out the day.

By the time I’m finished, stars shine in the darkening sky and I’ve come to
a house where lamp light glows yellow through tall windows and porch lights wink beside the door.

Then I realize: It’s for this light I’ve come — for a glimpse of the familiar through altered eyes, for the light of my own house welcoming me home.

From time to time a walker has to drive. To move from point A to point B when points A and B are hundreds of miles apart. To tote groceries or kids or large stringed instruments. To accommodate those who seldom stroll.

Walk enough, though, and it colors the drive, makes it less efficient. At a certain point the car becomes the body with wheels for legs.

That’s when a drive becomes a meditative amble. A time to think, daydream and while away the hours.

Recent events have once again brought to my attention the mind’s power over the body. This is not a new story — or even a novel idea for a post. After all, walking in the suburbs ( the activity, not the blog!) is as good for the mood as it is for the heart and lungs.

But seeing it in action, the undeniable power of this mind-body connection, fills me with wonder and gratitude.

We are a collection of chemicals, of muscle, bone and sinew. But we are also so much more.

Light slants low from heaven this time of year. Yesterday it made rainbows on my office walls, pouring through a prism in the window — winter’s consolation.

But today the summer sun is on my mind: full-bodied, inescapable, soul-stirring and strong. 

From its rising to its setting, a benediction, a hymn of love upon the land.

A post postponed. A post about sleep. Too long to get into today. Instead, a meditation on standing still, its importance in our lives.

Standing still to watch the grass waving in the wind; to ponder a fenced pasture.

Standing still to hear each leaf hit the ground, to feel a breeze I wouldn’t notice if I were moving quickly.

A walk moves you through space. But standing still lets space move through you.

So we come to the days of perfectly parceled light. Equal measures of darkness and day. What every young child longs for: the cookie cut into two halves that are absolutely the same. Not one chocolate chip more or less.

Perfect equality; perfectly equal.

I think these days of Suzanne, living nine degrees north of the equator in a land where it’s always  equinox. Mornings at 7, evenings, too. Seasons of rain and sun rather than heat and cold. Still the northern hemisphere, but barely.

Summer-lover that I am, northern hemisphere-dweller that I am, it’s hard to imagine warm weather without long days. But that’s what she has. Heat and wood smoke, too, I bet — another one of those anomalies.

Here at 38 degrees latitude, we are finally balanced. But only because it’s September 25. The scale is already tipping. Darkness is winning out. Time to dream of a land where it never does.

(Photo: Katie Esselburn)

Warm sun, cool air, full harvest. The Reston Farmer’s Market is one of the bigger ones in the area, and even though we arrived at the end of it there were still plenty of tomatoes … and peaches … and eggplant … and grapes. 

Let the salads and stir-fries begin.

(Photos by Claire Capehart)

I saw them on the drive Friday. Trees with leaves that are green on top but glint silver when tickled by the wind. Leaves with flip sides that shine like the scales of a fish.

Silver maples thrive in wetlands, I’ve learned; I know them from the mountains of Kentucky. I remember my parents pointing them out to me on those interminable Sunday drives.

Since then I’ve reveled in this botanical knowledge and in the secret beauty these trees possess. Leaves hiding their loveliest feature, revealing it only when the wind blows.

(It’s hard to find a picture of a silver maple with its silver showing.)