A Walker in the Suburbs

I often think (and have probably written) about the first bird of the morning. I heard it just seconds ago, a truncated chirp, perhaps a clearing of the throat more than anything else. A bird who, like me, woke up before his alarm.

A question: Do birds toss and turn? I doubt it. There are a couple of parakeets in the house and though they might flap and flutter during the day, their rest always seems restful. Heads tucked in wings, a picture of repose.

After a few quiet minutes, the first bird is at it again. It’s still dark outside, as dark as 2 a.m., maybe darker. But the wild birds know that morning is here. 

I’ll take any excuse to make them. New Year’s, first day of school, birthday.

Sometimes they are formal, list-like affairs. Other times just fleeting inclinations: “Don’t worry so much.” “Take life as it comes.”

Today’s is like that. “Be grateful for what you have.”

If a “foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds” (Emerson), then what are resolutions? A refuge for the list-maker? A canard for the overly optimistic?

Or a way to stay fluid as the years conspire to harden us?

I’ll go with that last one!

A walk I remember, a man in front of me with his arms clasped in back, an image I recall now, weeks later.

Seeing him stroll like that brought to mind characters in Russian novels wearing great long coats; they held their arms like that, too. Is it the posture of thought?

The arms not moving in tandem with the legs in motion, but anchored, as if to keep the emphasis on the cerebral.

I think more freely when striding naturally, legs and arms in opposition. It’s the rhythm of footfall. The arms are along for the ride.

My walks around the city are a study in black in white. The white is from the buildings, their facades of marble, limestone and granite.

The black is from the coats. Long, short, open, closed. But black, almost always black. The puffy parkas of the seriously cold. The long topcoats of the multitasking and self-important (a lot of those around here). The dark suit jackets of those impervious to the chill.

Put them all together — the Hill types striding across the Capitol plaza; the office-worker at lunch — and you have a ballet, a choreography, a study in contrasts.

D.C. gets color from its tourists. But it gets its subtlety and its heft and its monochromatic harmony from its denizens.

I saw them yesterday as I left work, a flock of sparrows taking in the air, sunning themselves in the hedge at the end of the alley.

They looked so much like a painting that I had to stop, snap a picture — and appreciate the respectful distances they kept from each other, the way they blended in with their surroundings, a study in brown.

It was the sort of day when everyone was outside who could be.

And that included sparrows, of course.

We seem to live in a world based more and more on choice — what we read, hear, taste and see is preset to our likes and dislikes. News online instead of from a newspaper. Music from an iPod instead of a radio.

I thought of this on a recent long drive when I had only the radio for company. Suddenly I wasn’t in charge. The airwaves were. Depending upon the angle of my antenna and the pitch of the road I could be listening to a Chopin Nocturne or a local sports call-in show. Sometimes I was listening to both at once!

But the airwaves were kind to me that day. It was morning in the mountains of Kentucky when I heard Brahms’ Second Symphony and afternoon in the mountains of West Virginia when I heard Brahms’ First.

There they were — and not because I had bought and stored them in an mp3 file. (I already have them, in fact.) They were gifts from thin air, music at random — and all the sweeter because of it.

I don’t usually write postscripts, but today calls for one. I wrote yesterday’s entry hours before the tragic school shooting in Connecticut. It was a post about guns — not a topic I usually cover.

And now this.

There is everything to say, and there is nothing to say.

Could the tears shed over mass shootings fill an ocean?

I think maybe they could.

It’s a matter of perspective, I tell myself. Of angle and scale. I see the birds, their outline against the  sky, their large size and hulking shape not robin or jay-like. Their stillness predatory, dangerous. Must be hawks. Hawks in trees.

Three times in the last week I’ve seen them — twice in the suburbs, once in the city. Are there more of them or am I simply spotting them more often? Are they desperate for food this time of year?

I read a little about them, their exceptional vision, their annual migration patterns, their behavior — more peaceful than you would think (when you rule out what they must do to eat!).  Though I’m seeing them in trees, I’m imagining them in flight, seeking, soaring, alone among the clouds.

Allaboutbirds.org

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It’s a minor complaint, the doctor said, and the best way to treat it is
with warm compresses to the eyes. He told me this a year ago and I didn’t
listen. This time he had my attention.

My new resolution, then, is to spend 15 minutes a day with my eyes closed, a
warm washcloth spread across them, hopping up every five minutes or so to
reheat the cloth.  This is my new meditation time.

It’s strangely relaxing. The warmth of the compress, the blotting out of the
world, my mind wandering, me trying, trying to keep it empty but largely
failing. Still, it’s a beginning, an earnest attempt to spend a few minutes a
day in the mental equivalent of a warm bath.

When the compress cools, I re-enter the world reluctantly. Lights seem too
bright, noises too loud. My eyes are still sore;  healing them will take time. But my
mind is starting to crave its quiet time.

The last few days, Venus has brightened my dark drive to Metro. It’s been there for a while, but I notice it more now.

I notice, too, the low sun as it shines through trees on the mornings I’m here to see its rising, how it separates and illuminates the foliage.

Autumn placements. Angles of refraction.  So much to notice this time of year.