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Coat Tails Flying

Coat Tails Flying

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I saw him from the bus window, a lone biker on a share cycle, not his own road bike. He was wearing no helmet and his hair was in a bun.

What caught my eye, though, was his suit jacket. It was flaring out behind him as he rode, and it made him seem, though he was suited for a day in the office, about eight years old.

He was any kid on the way to the park or the pool on a delicious summer afternoon, all his life before him. He was free! But better than that, he managed to capture this feeling on the way to work.

He was not practicing safe behavior. There was no bike helmet in sight. But I couldn’t take my eyes off him. We were behind him all the way down Clarendon, as I watched his coat tails fly.

Vacation Time

Vacation Time

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Every year when I’m at the beach I finally fall into vacation time. Never completely. There is always a part of me that is about efficiency and completion. And never right away. It may take days.

I knew it happened this time when I completely forgot about a meeting I said I might attend. It wasn’t a conscious slip of the schedule. It was a complete and utter forgetting. And when the reminder text came, it was as if my colleagues were hailing from a distant world.

This world is waiting for me — I’l return to it all too soon — but right now it is deliciously foreign, the sort of place I used to know but have almost forgotten because of the strangeness of its exotic customs.

The Long Tip-Toe

The Long Tip-Toe

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My office is quiet enough that I think twice before I set a key on a metal shelf. The slightest rustle, the faintest clink becomes a car alarm or a fog horn. The only sanctioned sounds are the tapping of computer keys and the whirring of the ventilation system.

Apart from those, we are … silent. We are the hushed stacks of an old-fashioned library. We are the quiet car of the Northeast Regional.

Which is not to say that people don’t meet and talk and laugh here. These things are done. But they’re the exceptions and not the rule. A library stillness rules this place.

For the most part the quiet is helpful, since I spend most of my work hours writing and editing, but it’s also unnatural — as if too many people are holding their breath. And woe to the person who wants a Tic-Tac. Retrieving those hard little mints from their noisy plastic boxes is the aural equivalent of the 4th of July fireworks.

Over time, though, the quiet has become contagious. Since I began working here 14 months ago, I move more slowly in an attempt to move more quietly. I set down my teacup with great care. I close my file cabinets with consideration. The enforced quiet has become a long tip-toe, a slow soft shoe, a mindfulness exercise that never ends.

Two Walks

Two Walks

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Rising early has its advantages, chief among them the chance to take two walks before breakfast.

My first was before 6:00 a.m., air still cool, crows still running the place. Their caws say “danger, danger, danger,” but not for me. I hear jays and hawks, too, plus the rise and fall of midsummer cicadas.

The second walk was a purposeful stride from Oakton High School to the Vienna Metro Station. It’s the closest place to park and not pay, so when the morning is luscious and I have the time,  I walk the mile instead of driving it.
The sights and sounds are different: Instead of crows I hear the whoosh of traffic noise, and the hawk’s cry is replaced by the shrill grind of metal-on-metal as a train lumbers into the station. 
But these are quibbles. It’s Monday. It’s morning. And … two walks are better than one.
(I took this en route to the Vienna Metro some years ago. The trees look like they’re walking, too.)
More for Less

More for Less

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Two days ago Metro raised its fares and its parking rates. I now shell out an extra 30 cents for the worst ride in town. Why pay more for less? Why not find another way to get to work?

Truth is, I have. I’ve shrunk the Metro portion of my trip as much as I can, catching a bus six stops earlier than I used to get off, trudging up an escalator and spending the last 10 minutes of my commute above ground.

I could give up Metro entirely, but that would mean either full-time telework (not likely!) or driving every day. And as much as I dread the “Orange Crush” (a fizzy moniker for what happens on the Orange Line from 5-6 p.m.) at least I can read or write when I have a seat.

In commuting, as in life, compromises are made. I like the passive voice there. It suits the situation.

(Besides, I would miss the architecture.)

Civilized Pace

Civilized Pace

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Pre-dawn walks are becoming a habit. Made possible by early light, they remind me of early-morning runs when I lived in Manhattan. If I woke by 6:50 I could dash around the reservoir and be in the shower by 7:30 and on my way out the door at 8:00. By 9:00 or a little after I would be in my office sipping tea, nibbling a bagel and reading the Times.

No one arrived at McCall’s before 9:00 or 9:15 and no one bothered you while you read the newspaper — we were “looking for trends,” after all, so it was considered part of the workday. Ah, what a reasonable hour and civilized pace.

No one forces me to get in early now. It’s just the way I roll. But I like to remember a time when commuting meant hoofing it through Central Park, down Fifth, across 47th and over to Park.  Now that’s a walk!

(What I saw on the way to the office.)

Stairmaster

Stairmaster

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My eyes are still half closed when I see it looming. It’s not the longest escalator in D.C.’s Metro system. In fact, it’s not even in the top 10. But it’s long enough. And it’s my morning challenge.

No standing on the right. I start on the left and move myself up those moving steps.  Some mornings at a plodding pace; others a bit more briskly. I’m usually winded when I reach the summit, and my legs are shaky. But I’m at the top. And sorta kinda on my own steam.

There could be worse ways to start a day. I could be walking up the Wheaton escalator, the longest in the Western Hemisphere. 


It’s a Stairmaster, courtesy of Metro. 
One Year

One Year

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Today marks one year at my “new” job.  I know most names, can find most conference rooms and have located a stairwell that allows me back on the fifth floor once I do my stair-climb. (Shhh… this one is confidential; all other stairwells are locked from the other side!)

Anniversaries come more quickly than they used to, especially this one. It barely seems possible I’ve been here for one complete turn around the sun.

While I’m grateful that I could find a new job, meet new people and travel to far-flung places (especially grateful for that), I’m always mindful of the clock ticking, and of Mary Oliver’s words, which I quoted here a week ago:

The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave it it neither power nor time.

So, as I start my second year here, I’ll focus most on balance, on finding the creative path through every task. It’s not just the right way; it’s the only way.

When Minutes Fly

When Minutes Fly

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I’ve had many commutes in my life. The easiest was a stroll down the hall. The most inspiring was a walk through Central Park from the Upper West Side to Midtown Manhattan.

The one I have now involves a drive, Metro trip, bus ride and walk. I might be in as many as four vehicles on the way home, since I switch from one line to the other to avoid being squeezed in what is known here as the “Orange Crush” (for the Orange Line to Vienna, where I park my car).

All of which is to say, I have a disjointed commute. What’s consistent about it is that, unless I’m standing up and it’s too crowded to breathe, I have a book, journal or newspaper in hand. What stitches together the minutes and hours is … ( no surprise!) … the written word.

It’s amazing how quickly this makes time pass, how easy it is to miss my stop. So today I’m grateful for the words that make the minutes fly. Don’t know what I’d do without them.

Making Change

Making Change

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One of the things  I like about my job is talking with people on the other side of the world. It’s an instant way to get perspective.

For one thing, they’re just ending their days while we’re just beginning ours. For another, they are dealing with problems we can barely imagine, problems like trying to keep food cold to prevent spoilage. (Pakistan loses almost 50 percent of its crops after harvest.)

I just heard a man who’s on the leading edge of change in that country, someone who tries to convince people they don’t have to do things the way they’ve always done them, describe walking into a cold storage facility filled with rats and mold. “I almost vomited,” he said.

But he saw the potential and made the connection that created change. These are not huge shifts. They are pebbles tossed into streams.

Toss enough of them, though, and you change the flow.