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)
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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.)
The mosquitoes are hungry. Like the lightening bugs and cicadas, thrown off their normal cycles by a rainy June, they are making up for lost time. In the case of the lightening bugs and cicadas, we have mid-July evenings full of light and sound. But in the case of the mosquitoes we could have (if we let them) — no evenings out at all.
Two nights ago I emerged from dinner on the deck with at least half a dozen bites. Last night half as many more. Most sane people would grab their plate and place mat and head into the house. But how many evenings allow for al fresco dining at 8 p.m.? How many sultry skies with darting bats and a half moon rising between the trees?
So I spray repellant, light candles and give myself — and the mosquitoes — a chance to stay up late.
A year ago today I opened the Washington Post and saw in the pet adoption column not the usual picture of a cuddly kitten or perky puppy but the head shot of a parakeet. It was a close-up, since it fit the same space that a larger critter would take.
What it revealed was a green parakeet (unlike our dear departed Hermes, who was eye-popping turquoise blue) with a noble profile and a look of intelligence about him. A parakeet who knew his good side. His name was Sid.
I called the Fairfax County Humane Society. “Is Sid still available?” I couldn’t believe the “yes.” I thought people would be beating down the doors to adopt this little bird.
But they weren’t. And we did. And just for good measure we got Sid a lady friend — Dominique (our name, not theirs).
When Hermes was here the house was bird-centric to a fault. Sid and Dominique must roll with the punches. We do not read them a bedtime story. We do not talk to them night and day. But we love them and care for them and hang their cage from a hook in the kitchen where their feathers fall perilously close to the kitchen table. They’re part of the family now.
I write these words to the sound of parakeets chirping. It’s good to have birds again!
Photo: Claire Capehart
New bird feeders have turned our back yard into an avian paradise. Goldfinches flit from branch to seeds, sometimes posing on top of the tomato cage, a perfect perch.
This morning I watched a female hummingbird for what seemed like hours but was only minutes, long enough for her to dart in and out, sipping nectar with each rush to the feeder.
And as I write these words a pileated woodpecker nibbles at a peanut butter block.
Birds catch on quickly. They have passed on word about the chow here. It’s good, you ought to try it. And with the living room couch still turned south I have a, well, bird’s eye view of all the goings on.
Parakeets in the house, and sparrows, robins, cardinals, jays, finches, woodpeckers, chickadees and hummingbirds outside.
It’s Bird Land, for sure.
