A Walker in the Suburbs

I’ve seen this little guy (or someone like him, I should say, because this is not my photograph!) here before, drawn by the coleus flowers on our deck. An iridescent-necked hummingbird so improbably tiny that each time I see him I think at first that I’m looking at an insect.

The hummingbird makes me think of one of my favorite essays, “Joyas Voladoras” by Brian Doyle, which begins: “Consider the hummingbird for a long moment. A hummingbird’s heart beats ten times a second. A hummingbird’s heart is the size of a pencil eraser. A hummingbird’s heart is a lot of the hummingbird. Joyas voladoras, flying jewels, the first white explorers in the Americas called them, and the white men had never seen such creatures, for hummingbirds came into the world only in the Americas, nowhere else in the universe…”

And because this tiny bird brings an essay to mind I think of him as a muse, flying inspiration, bound to lead to a productive writing day. I hope.

For the last few days, flight has been on my mind. Because it is September, because I saw in an almost-dark sky an unmistakable “V” of geese, because soon animals in our part of the northern hemisphere will search for a place to stay warm for the winter. Perhaps for all these reasons and more, I’ve been thinking lately about where to live when the children are on their own, when our nest is empty. Realizing, of course, that this is not a single decision but a joint one, that I love our house because we’ve raised (are raising) three daughters in it, still, still I’m restless on this subject.

What is it that binds you to a place? Family, friends, work, of course. But to what degree is it the land itself, the way it feels under your feet and as you drive through it on a late summer evening, aware suddenly that this once alien place, like it or not, is home.

The nest may not be empty but the house certainly is. Claire moved into George Mason housing yesterday, Suzanne is well settled at Wooster and Celia spent the night at a friend’s. Am I only imagining it or does the place just feel emptier, the air thinner?

Being a parent means letting go — that’s something you learn from the very beginning. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Twice this weekend while walking I stopped to talk with friends about their children going off to college or grad school. Raising kids is what the suburbs are about. Which raises the question: What happens when the children grow up and move away?

Today on my walk through the suburbs I listened to a violin piece by Paganini called “Perpetual Motion.” This work goes up and down the scale in an almost manic manner,and it reminds me, I’ll admit, of myself.

I’ve always liked to be on the move. I enjoy walking, running, biking, swimming — activities that keep the old body moving. This is fine, of course, good for the heart and lungs and large muscles. It’s good for the mind, too; it scours away worries and anxieties.

Perpetual motion can be a problem, however, especially when you don’t allow yourself time to process one task or emotion before you move on to the next. In that case, efficiency can be counterproductive. It stifles creativity, which thrives in a looser loam. So as I was walking I vowed to be less productive in the future. Not today, though. I have too much to do!

Yesterday I rode eight and a half hours in the passenger seat. I could read on the straightaways, but on the curvy roads I napped or snapped photos or just looked out the window. There’s a place in the middle of West Virginia that looks like the West. Jagged rocks, a wildness to the landscape. It makes me think of all the long road trips we’ve taken, how they always feel like the real thing. Getting away to a place you can drive to, a world apart at the end of the road.

We looked for shooting stars last night and didn’t find them. But inside our house another rare phenomenon was occurring. The convergence of three sisters, all together, in our kitchen. This doesn’t happen very often, it won’t happen again until, oh, probably November. But how it gladdens my heart to see our girls together. Here they are in earlier days — which now seem so long ago.

I’m not a graphic designer, but editing a magazine — and taking pictures for this blog — have made me more aware of the orientation of a photograph, whether it’s horizontal or vertical. And being known to muse about things from time to time (!) I have mused about this, too. Yes, the vertical is stirring. It is the mountain, the skyscraper, the urge to touch the sky. But for everyday photos, give me the horizontal. It is restful, it is kind, it neatly fills the page or screen. It is the horizon, telling us how far we can go.

The lights are blinking yellow as I drive through Fairfax on the way home from book group. It’s still warm and the wind blows hot against my face. The heat is a creature let loose upon the earth, a menace, a fire-breathing dragon singeing my toes, dragging me down. An easy excuse. And now at the end of this hot, hot, day, I’m finally outrunning it. As I drive west it cools a bit. The swagger is gone from the day. What’s left behind is swelter.

Yesterday I volunteered to hold the new dean’s phone, keys, pens and other valuables in my purse while our photographer took his picture outside. This was all fine until it was time to retrieve the items. The blackberry was easy — it was right on top — the keys I fished out eventually, but to find his pens required taking everything out of my purse. This was embarrassing. I have lots of tissues in my purse. The dean was exceptionally polite and understanding and took it all with good humor. This bodes well for the future. But it feeds into every female-digging-around-in-her-handbag stereotype there is. I vow to clean up my act. You never know when your purse may be called to duty!

Says one mourning dove to another: “You’re plump and cute; Let’s get married.” Or at least that’s what I thought he said, though his words came out a bit garbled, more like like “Oooh eee, oooh, oooh, oooh.” We watched this pair yesterday afternoon and I just saw them this morning as they continued their courtship dance on our deck railing.

Mourning doves like our house. Maybe it’s the silvery weathered wood, which makes them think they’re in the forest. Or maybe the railing is the right height for them. Or maybe they know that bird lovers live inside. We’ve had dove families here before. One year we watched babies take flight. They toddled along the planks, then spread their wings and soared to a nearby bough. As we stood earthbound, holding our breath, they became creatures of the air.