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Questions Without Answers

Questions Without Answers

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First work-at-home day in weeks. I sit on a cool deck, morning air in my lungs. I’m wearing a sweatshirt and thinking about when to squeeze in a walk. A cup of hot tea beside me; a bag of work at my feet.

A mental checklist interrupts the peace. Something is due today. Oh, that’s right: a handout for a panel discussion I’m moderating in two weeks, people I need to pester.

I think about how much of my job involves pestering. Far too much of it, I decide. I think about my job itself and how it’s changing — in two weeks my boss is leaving and I’ll be doing her job as well as mine.

Am I up to the challenge? What will happen to calm writing time, to sitting-on-the-deck-and-thinking time?

The weather will take care of some of this. Already the goldfinch are gone, along with the coneflowers that attracted them. I hear a strange new bird call that sounds like a squawking horn. A visitor passing through, no doubt.

As for the rest of the adjustment, only time will tell.

A.M. and P.M.

A.M. and P.M.

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Morning on Metro, waiting for a train, the line of commuters stretches to infinity. All of them must leave the bus or park the car, file into the station, take a seat (if there is one) and occupy themselves for 30 or so minutes. It’s the numbing life of regularity that is unfortunately required for much of anything to get done.

Evening on Metro, a sudden shower douses us as we exit the train into a sunny afternoon. I simultaneously open my umbrella and put on my sunglasses. Then I trudge with the masses up the escalator, through the turnstile and toward my car. But then I remember to look. Surely it’s possible. And yes, it’s true. A rainbow. Just when we needed it most.

Trudging

Trudging

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To commute is to trudge. Yes, one must be nimble, must dash quickly into the car as the doors are closing. But there is a good amount of trudging involved, too.

The other day, as I was hiking up a broken escalator, concentrating on the thin-strapped gold sandals of the woman ahead of me, I thought that if we can’t walk a mile in someone’s shoes, we can always walk a few paces behind them.

Doing so may not give us complete access to the stranger’s hopes and dreams and worries, but it does accustom us to her pace, to the effort she puts forth to climb a flight of stairs, which in some cases is herculean.

At the very least it requires a pause and a shifting of priorities, a switch from me to thee. I don’t like it, of course. I’d rather rush up the stairs at my own pace. But trudging keeps me mindful of the lives of others.

Relic

Relic

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We used to search for glasses, keys and phone numbers. Now we also search for passwords.  And yesterday my password search took me here, to the most undigital of places, my old Rolodex, where I used to keep a card with those pesky open sesames.

I never found the card, but I did spend a few minutes flipping through the Rolodex. It’s dusty and neglected, poor thing. I haven’t touched it for months, haven’t used it for years. But oh, the memories it holds, the connections it made possible, the worlds it opened up.

There are editors’ phone numbers, the contact information of long-forgotten sources, strings of numbers I once knew as well as my own. Each card tells a story. There’s that infant sleep expert who took to calling me at all hours, including when I was in labor with my first child! There’s a phone number for the Population Reference Bureau, which I just Googled to find a ticking world population clock (7, 718, 240, 013 — I mean 014, 015, 016 …). 

Before we swiped and tapped, we paged through and wore out. Most of these cards are bent and softened from frequent touching, tangible proof that they were used and treasured.

No one I know uses a Rolodex anymore. Now our contacts are scattered on various media, social and personal. Are we more connected now than we were then? The funny thing is, I don’t think we are.

Smooth Move

Smooth Move

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This week Metro returns to automatic train control on the Red Line. Sounds insignificant — but it isn’t. Since the accident in June, 2009, that killed nine people, Metro conductors have used individual controls for stopping and starting. And stopping and starting. And stopping and starting.

Which means that some operators hit the right point on the platform first time around, and others — uh, do not.

Which means that some passengers keep on reading the paper, using their phones, playing Sudoku, while others — the ones with weaker stomachs — sit very still and hope for fresh air soon.

The automatic train control promises a less herky-jerky traveling experience. Legato not staccato. But this will be available only on the Red Line (which shares no tracks) until 2017, when the Orange, Silver, Blue, Yellow and Green Lines follow suit.

I ride the Orange Line for a dozen stops, the Red Line for two. I can’t wait for my short, smooth ride.

Of Lions and Lambs

Of Lions and Lambs

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The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down
with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together;
and a little child shall lead them. 
Isaiah 11:6

 The program has been on my computer for a while, but I’m only just starting to learn it. InCopy works in tandem with the InDesign program. It protects design files while allowing editors to make changes directly in them.

While I don’t plan to do away with paper proofs, learning to make changes myself frees up the designers and guarantees more accuracy.  It means I won’t hesitate to remove the dash I just added in the last round of page proofs because I decided the comma was better after all.  It gives me a little more control.

More to the point, it brings words people and image people closer together. The lion may lie down with the lamb — which is how I thought the Bible verse read until about ten minutes ago, when I looked it up.

 

Stayin’ Alive

Stayin’ Alive

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My soundtrack this morning is courtesy of our parakeets, Sid and Dominique, who chatter and chirp and sing. They are cheerful little creatures, supplying much entertainment. I could spend hours just watching them climb and preen and jump from one perch to the other.

The birds outside are just as busy. They flit and feed and hop along the deck railing. Right now a red-headed woodpecker is chipping away at the suet block. It’s vital protein for these chilly mornings. After he flies away, I spot a cardinal in the back of the yard, bending the forsythia branch with his tiny weight.

I turn my gaze back to the page. This is my work. Not as direct as the bird’s daily toil. But just the same — it’s what I do to stay alive.

(Photo: Claire Capehart)

Sunrise Photography

Sunrise Photography

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Vienna Metro, 7 a.m.

A train lumbers into the station and a swarm of thickly clad Northern Virginians scampers to board it. It’s 25 degrees outside; our breath makes clouds in the morning air.

I take a seat on the right hand side just in time for the big show — the winter sunrise. Clouds pile up and fan out, a medley of pinks and blues. On the horizon, a gash of gold.

The photo I take is grainy, a blurry likeness through smeared glass, with train lights reflected back at me. An imperfect replica, captured with a click (since I forgot to switch my phone to silent).

Two minutes later, the man in front of me takes out his smartphone, snaps his own sunrise shot.

If I do nothing else today I will take comfort in this — that someone else noticed the day unfolding and took the time to make it his own.

Schedule Adjustment

Schedule Adjustment

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Here are phrases that chill the hearts of Metro commuters — “car offloading,” “single tracking,” “track maintenance.” The one I heard yesterday — “schedule adjustment” — elicited no ire, only a wry grin.

Come on! Is Metro running so smartly and speedily and easily that it needs to pause to avoid arriving early? Couldn’t it just be ahead of time for once and put that anomaly in its karmic bank account against future late arrivals?

But no, we sat several minutes or more at some insanely early hour — doors wide open to the wind and to customers who dash into the car breathlessly thinking they’d just made it only to realize that they could have taken their time and sauntered in. It doesn’t take long before they realize that this train isn’t going anywhere for a few minutes — and that now they are part of a schedule adjustment, too.

Tysons from Below

Tysons from Below

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Ever since the new Silver Line went in I’ve been zooming through Tysons on rails above the ground. Sometimes I look down at the traffic, strings of light in the looming darkness, and feel good I’m up above it all.

But yesterday and today I drove to Tysons, saw Metro from below, was bewildered at the new traffic patterns. I was flexible, I was free — until I was sitting at lights and in lines.

Sitting and sitting and sitting …