A Walker in the Suburbs

A postscript to “The Coverup” below.

Last night I covered my Dad, who’s in the hospital. I thought of all the times he covered me.

I thought about how life comes full circle, and how, even in the sad times, there’s a fullness to it. Something deeper than joy or sorrow.

To have two parakeets in a cage that hangs from the ceiling is to have a complicated relationship with feathers.

Feathers are, of course, beautiful to look at, whether on or off the bird. They come in iridescent yellows, blues and greens — hues that might be garish elsewhere but seem perfectly natural on a bird. And feathers are fun to collect and hold: the sharp peak of the long flight feather and the soft fuzz of the white down.

But when birds molt and feathers fly, well, then you have a lot of cleaning to do. It was while cleaning after a recent molt that I began to wonder:  How would it feel to live with feathers, to fluff them and preen them, to see them piled on the cage floor?  How would it feel to lose them, one by one?

Would we be lightened? Would we be freed? And when new growth appeared, would we know then what it means to begin again?

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)