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Something’s Cooking

Something’s Cooking

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As the physical reality of my world shrinks to house and yard, each individual room looms larger. The living room has become my primary work space, the basement an entertainment hub and gym, and the kitchen — ah, the kitchen is getting a workout.

Like many of us stuck at home, I’ve been eating more — and better — than usual. This is because there’s more food in the house and because my typical excuses for not cooking — what a horrible commute! such a day I’ve had at the office! — are no longer viable.

So when I come downstairs in the morning I’m greeted with distinctive cooking smells — with the tang of last night’s curry or the aroma of last week’s (reheated) quiche.

It’s a more full-bodied, full-aroma’ed house I live in these days. And I have to say … I like it.

Still There

Still There

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Yesterday, I escaped again. This time to walk with another daughter, in an inner rather than an outer suburb —an old neighborhood with houses tucked into hillsides. The iris had popped there, and the dogwood and azaleas have bloomed longer than usual this year, thanks to cooler weather, so they were still in fine array. The flowering trees gave each house and yard the enchantment they deserved.

I’ve said this often (here and elsewhere), but the Washington, D.C., area is at its most beautiful in spring — and this year spring has lasted months.

This particular walk took us to the bluffs above the Potomac River, where we clambered on rocks and rain-slicked trails, through tunnels of foliage colored an eye-popping green. How lovely to be in that place in that moment. How good to have gotten out not once but twice (both for valid reasons, I feel I must add — for exercise and food drop-offs), to see a little more of the world that’s out there. It’s a good reminder, six weeks into quarantine, that it will all still be there when we emerge.

The Land of Other

The Land of Other

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Yesterday I escaped home and yard for a brief sojourn in the Land of Other. The Land of Other is not some mythical place far away. It is simply any place other than my own.

I hadn’t been in this land for two weeks, and it felt good to be there. It’s not that I mind being home all of the time. Mostly I don’t. But as the weeks wear on, and family members remain tantalizingly close, I can’t help but visit them.

Interactions were brief and mostly took place outside. There were two long walks, three frisky dogs, a daughter, a brother and — at the end, a box of take-out fried chicken.

Simple pleasures, deeply enjoyed. The Land of Other — it’s still out there. And knowing that makes me uncommonly happy.

Open Pavement

Open Pavement

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Last week I ran an errand that involved driving home via the commuting route I used to take B.C. (Before Covid). I came down Nutley, turned left on Old Courthouse then left again on Route 123 before taking a right on Hunter Mill then the rest of the way home.

There were almost no cars on the road, as you might expect, and as eerie as it was, the commuting self in me (homo commutus?) rejoiced. Here, finally, was something we all crave around here, something rare and precious — open pavement.

As these weeks of quarantine give way to something more ominous — weeks (months?) of uncertain re-openings, re-closings and second-guessings, I think back on those empty roads I saw last week. They were broad, they were empty, they were beautiful. But as we all know … they can’t last.


(An almost-empty road in Colorado. It’s harder to find pictures of empty roads around here.)

Contented with Containment

Contented with Containment

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The more I read of Niall Williams’s This is Happiness (more about this wonderful book in a later post), the more I realize that, although I grew up in Lexington, Kentucky, I also grew up in an Irish storytelling culture. Although on the surface my dad seemed to be the chief yarn-spinner, Mom was no slouch in the storytelling department, and her mother, my nana, could tell tall tales with the best of them.

One of Mom’s stories, which may have come in part from her mother — or at least happened when Mom was a little girl — involved a man whose name was Mangione, I think, or maybe Mahoney. This man lived on High or Maxwell or one of the tree-lined streets around the University of Kentucky.  And one fine day he went into his house, climbed up into an attic room, and — Mom always said this part dramatically — never came out again.

As a child I was always fascinated with the mechanics of this arrangement. Was there a bathroom up there? Did he receive his food on a tray? As an adult I realize that this man must have have had agoraphobia or some other anxiety that kept him from leaving the house. But whatever the reason, I’ve often thought of his as a cautionary tale, what happens to people who don’t get out enough — they simply stop wanting to leave.

Is our sheltering-in-place creating an epidemic of agoraphobia, a generation of hermits? Will the quarantines be relaxed, the doors thrown open, and people just yawn and say, that’s fine, but I’ll stay inside, thank you very much.

I feel it in myself, this lessening of desire to be out and about in the world, this contentment with containment. I wonder if others feel the same way.

Intentionality

Intentionality

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In the guided meditation I’ve been doing through work we’ve been exploring the idea of intentionality, of directing our practice toward others who will benefit from it, those at home or in the (now virtual) workplace.

It’s something I recall doing at a yoga class I took years ago, devoting the effort, the realizations and the calmness to a cause beyond ourselves. Back then one or two of my children were still in their teenage years, so I never had a lack of intention.

But I’ve realized today as I’ve pondered this practice (not during the meditation itself, oh no, never then; I’m not thinking about anything then!) is that it’s familiar from even longer ago. It reminds me of something I was taught in my Catholic grammar school, which was to “offer up” our daily trials for the poor souls in Purgatory.

I’m not sure Purgatory is still a thing (a place?) anymore, but the notion of directing our collective effort toward a greater good very much appeals to me. It means that there is a reservoir of good will abroad in the land that we can add to and draw from as needed.  And surely we could all benefit from that.

Limit Two

Limit Two

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The grocery store signage of the hour doesn’t advertise the latest sale, doesn’t promise half price or double coupons. The grocery store signage of the hour says “Limit Two.” Customers are told they can buy no more than two liquid soap dispensers, two gallons of milk, two dozen eggs, two pounds of butter and two boxes of pasta.

It is the language of scarcity, the language of a pandemic and, in this topsy-turvy world in which we now live, perhaps also the language of the future.

Are we, after so much abundance, entering an era of scarcity? It certainly seems so. There are fewer jobs, fewer certainties — and most definitely fewer rolls of toilet paper.

But even after the production of goods has been ramped up I wonder if we will keep the “Limit Two” mentality. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Because what Limit Two does most of all is to acknowledge that there are those who come after us — and they will be wanting their milk, eggs and butter too.

(Photo: NJ.com)

Long Woods Walk

Long Woods Walk

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Yesterday, I went out early for the weekly groceries, donned mask and gloves, observed social distancing, came home and wiped everything off before putting it all away and then decided …  I needed a walk. And not just any walk — but a long woods walk.

I took a Reston path that leads to the Cross County Trail. It’s a section of the CCT that I often stroll, but yesterday I went further, into a place where the first sign you see warns you of snakes in the area.

It’s a fitting intro to a wilder, more hike-like area. It was easy to imagine I was miles away not just from desk and to-dos — but also from the section of trail I just covered.

I nodded to a father and two sons jogging down the trail; to a man and his children who were exploring ants on a log; and to several others out enjoying the sun and pretending this was an ordinary spring Friday.

The music in my ears seemed redundant, so I pulled out the buds and listened to woodpeckers and robins. I stopped on a bridge over the Snakeden Branch Stream and heard the water talk to itself. How lovely and clear it looked as it tumbled over rocks, all white and frothy as it landed.

It was almost two hours later when I got back to the car. The walk had turned into a hike. The day seemed larger and brighter than it had before.

Old Blue Shoes

Old Blue Shoes

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I had been meaning to replace them late last year, then in January … and February … and March. But by the time retail shopping shut down last month I still hadn’t bought a new pair of running shoes to replace my beat-up, ratty-looking old ones.

It’s not as if I couldn’t purchase a pair of replacements online. But I like to try on shoes before buying them.

So I soldier on, hoping the toe hole won’t grow much larger, hoping that the soles won’t shed any more rubber, that the heels won’t grow any lumpier than they are now.

Making do. It’s what we do now.

(This title a tip of the hat to New Blue Shoes, one of Claire’s favorite books when she was a little girl.)

Breathing

Breathing

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If someone asks me a few months from now how I got through the quarantine,  I will say, well, I kept breathing. This will sound flippant and I won’t mean it to.  It’s not just that I kept breathing. But I’ve kept breathing.

The italics are important. They denote not just the unconscious, staying-alive kind of breathing, but also the breathing that’s suggested in guided meditations and yoga classes, which I’ve been taking plenty of these last several weeks.

This is focused breathing, in-and-out-through-the-nose breathing or sometimes in-through-the-nose-out-through-the-mouth breathing. It’s putting one hand on my heart and one hand on my stomach and feeling the breath moving through my body. It’s becoming aware of the rise and fall, the inflow and outflow.

I’m a remedial meditation student, but I am learning to appreciate the power of deep breathing to settle the mind and calm the body. Breathe in, breathe out. Ah, that’s better.