A Walker in the Suburbs

The rabbits I wrote about last summer are nowhere to be seen now. The resident hawk has no doubt taken care of them. But there are plenty of rabbit holes around here — and I’ve been going down them to my heart’s content. 

On Monday, for instance, I spent the better part of an hour learning about the Italian composer Ottorino Respighi and his suite Ancient Airs and Dances. 

Other days I’ve plunged into the history of long-shot Kentucky Derby winners  or the geopolitics of the Iron Curtain. 

What do these topics have in common? Absolutely nothing … except that, for a few moments in the morning, I had time to learn about them. 

Last evening, working in a walk when the wind had finally died down, I strolled past a woman standing by her mailbox. She looked familiar … and she was still there a few minutes later as I had turned toward home. “Do I know you?” she asked. 

In the few minutes since I’d passed her I’d figured out the connection. “I think you go to my church,” I said. And yes, that’s exactly where we had seen each other.

In a small town, you often bump into neighbors at school or at the grocery store—usually when you’ve run in grubby from gardening and hope you won’t spot a soul you know. Not so with suburban living: the population is exponentially larger but the possibilities of chance meetings infinitely smaller.  

I treasure these “double sightings.” From them grow the connections from which friendship flows. 

(Even snow people like company.)

Passover began two days ago. Ramadan began two weeks ago. Today we celebrate the holiest day in the Christian calendar.

Powerful prayer storms are being stirred up around the globe: clouds of incense,  spiritual readings and focused intent. It is a time of turning inward, in search of grace, and of turning outward, in search of strength.

May the synergy of these holy days create a force for good to foster peace and prosperity around the world. 

The very idea of it seems far-fetched. It is too early for spring, too early for a break. But break time is is, at least for the student part of my life. 

There was no class Tuesday evening, though I prepared for it anyway since my break, which starts today, will get me home just in time for Tuesday class next week. 

Because as it turns out, I am taking a “spring break,” though one I wish I wasn’t. I’m heading out today to Kentucky for my cousin’s memorial service: a talented man gone far too soon. 

The trip will have its share of sadness, then, but also its share of joy, visiting with family I don’t often see. A break in many senses of that word: a road trip, a respite, a departure from the ordinary. 

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlock

Bearded with moss and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight

Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline

Today we explored the oldest stand of old-growth forest in Maryland, a place of deep shade and filtered light. The destination was Swallow Falls but the journey was also an attraction: a hike through pines and hemlocks more than 300 years old.

I imagined what these trees have seen, the ancient twinning of their root systems. Being in their company made me want to talk softly, to concentrate only on breathing the air they purify, on striding beneath their canopy.

The quick and surprising death of our parakeet Bart on Wednesday brings to mind this quotation from Jeremy Bentham: “The question is not, can they reason? nor, can they talk? but, can they suffer?”

The poor bird never seemed as chipper as his cage mate, Alfie, and back in March, I feared Bart was on his last legs. But he perked up and lived several more months to nibble and climb and spar with Alfie.

There was little clue to what ailed him, but I hope his suffering was brief. It certainly seemed that way. 

Now Alfie is left alone in the cage. He’s outlived two other budgies, and we’ll look soon for a new bird to join him. 

Birds are creatures of air and movement and song. And that’s the way I’d like to remember Bart. 

(Bart in a recent photo shoot.)

Yesterday was a train trip up from Portland to Seattle. Today, we fly east with the prevailing westerlies. Which means that, at least theoretically, it will take an hour less to return than it did to arrive. 

I’m heading back to Virginia with 10 days of dirty laundry, five new books, a passel of memories and plenty of inspiration for the days ahead. 

The best trips never stop giving. 

Who can say why it happens? The wind howls but seems dignified in its cry. A bank of clouds in the west pushes morning light into unexpected corners of the sky. Dawn purples the east and the rest of the firmament follows suit. It is strange but wonderful.

There is more, of course: the content of my dreams, already faded. The tang of the air. The promise of sweet, milky tea. Knowing that if I look out the back window at 10 I may see a fat red fox trotting across the yard. 

Whatever the elements I enjoy the result: the morning as benediction. 

This is the time of year when amateur singers around the world gather in church sanctuaries and basements to belt out “For Unto Us a Child is Born,” “His Yoke is Easy” and other choruses from Handel’s “Messiah.” 

This year, you can probably find some Zoom version, but that won’t do the trick, not with this piece of music. Beyond the loss of life and livelihood, which is of course what we mourn the most, one of the pandemic’s other great casualties is how it has banished group singing.

Singing aloud is one of life’s great joys, and doing it with others a great joy heightened. But that pleasure has been denied us since early last spring, when we learned that singing spreads the virus more efficiently than almost anything else. 

There are many ironies here, including this one: that an activity that helps us banish our troubles is not here for us when we need it most. 

I don’t know about other once-a-year choristers, but this one will be singing the Hallelujah Chorus aloud anyway. It will be in my house, the stereo cranked up high.  It will be fervent and spine-tingling. But I will be doing it … alone.  

One of the joys and hassles of a long-lived blog like this one is that I sometimes repeat myself. I feel relatively certain I’ve written of “Roses in December” (ah yes, there it is!), so I must find a new title for this one. How about “A Rose in December.” (The change is duly made.)

Having settled on a title now, then what about the meaning. I’m happy to announce that it’s a straightforward one today — the joy of seeing this bloom so late in the season, of feeling that it’s a slap in the face to subfreezing overnights and brisk western breezes. 

And yes, it brings back the long ago memory of a walled garden and its promise of warmth. But it is also a joy in and of itself. 

This year’s rose, no doubt fueled by a wet spring and moderate summer, has supplied me with blossoms from May to December. I’ve taken a rose to my just-born granddaughter and her mother in late October and could have given one to my November 30th-birthday daughter, had I the ability to ship it across the country. But that, alas, is beyond my power. 

One thing I know about these roses is how delicate they are, how fragile to the touch. They, like so much else in life, are better off the less they are disturbed.