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Thursday

Thursday

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If days were colors, Thursday would be yellow. The bright spot at the end of the week. Not yet Friday, but all the better — Friday still to come.

By Thursday, work is effortless. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday are just practice. Thursday is the real thing.

By Thursday, the week is almost over, but there is still room for improvement.

By Thursday, caution is not recommended. It’s a full-stop operation. Do or die.

Is there some ancient prejudice that inclines me toward this day. Or something in my own history? A favorite class? A special route? A piano lesson? 

Or is it just that I’d rather anticipate anticipation?

Tolerable

Tolerable

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For the last few years it’s been postponed, softened. New Year’s Day has landed on a Saturday or Sunday so we’ve had a day or two to cushion the blow, the return to work or school.

This year, no such luck. We’re out of holidays. The vast tundra that is January stretches before us — not just 30 days but 31.

If the holidays have been good, restful, this is tolerable.

Wishing all of us a tolerable January.

Anniversary

Anniversary

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On October 12, 2004, I went to work as a writer/editor for a university alumni magazine, ending a 17-year freelance-only career. I can still recall the strangeness of that day, the sound of high heels on the hard floor as a designer dropped off page proofs for me to read, the lunch I shared with two new colleagues. I even remember the outfit I wore, which included sandals because I hadn’t yet gotten around to buying “work shoes.”

Though I’ve long since grown used to the routine, some days it still seems slightly surreal to trade sweatpants and slipper socks for a skirt and flats, to travel elsewhere to do what I do at home all the time anyway.  But the routine has enlarged me, has given me plenty to think and write about, has helped me feel closer to the place I live.

Writing will never be just a job to me. But for many of my waking hours these days, that’s exactly what it is.

Blank Slate

Blank Slate

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As I walked the strand last week I noticed how swiftly each wave receded to make way for the next, how quickly the foam blew away and the sand dried out in between breakers.

If you’re looking for a blank slate, there is no better place than the beach.

And today, the day after Labor Day, we also have a blank slate. A new year of school for Celia, a return to work for me.

Resolutions? I’m taking my long-distance beach vision to the office. It will help me see what’s important and what’s not. When a deadline looms or an email goes unanswered, I’ll remember the scene above. I’ll take a deep breath, lift my eyes up from the screen and stare out the window. This is what I’ll see.

The Stair Way

The Stair Way

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A recent escalator accident on Metro has made taking the stairs a more popular option. The trick is finding stairs to take. Because D.C.’s Metro system is so deep underground,  escalators are the conveyance of choice — and they are a finicky bunch. They grumble, they growl, they take months, even years, to repair. And then, a few days ago, a piece of metal tore off the side of one, struck some morning commuters and sent several to the hospital.

I wasn’t anywhere near the mishap but I can imagine the crowding, the dim light, the bone weariness that most of us feel as we slog through our routines and then — without warning — a renegade escalator.

Contrast that with the spanking new stairway at Vienna. It is crisp, it is white, it glistens in the light. Walk up its broad expanse, ascend at your own speed and without the clatter of moving parts. It is the polished floor of a yoga studio, the silent hallway of an empty school at the end of summer. It is a Zen experience. Given a chance, I’ll take the stair way.

Photo: PlanitMetro.com

Decompression

Decompression

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The walk home on a no-car commute day: Leaving the park-and-ride lot on foot — on foot! — as everyone else starts up their cars. The jolt of uneasiness at first. Did I forget something? Did I forget to drive?

No. I arrived here on shank’s mare and will return that way, too. I have everything I need: sturdy sandals on my feet, a body that’s been sitting all day and needs to move, a carry bag where I stash my purse and book.  My two legs will carry me wherever I need to go.

Down the trail I glide, insects humming, bikers blasting past. The trail is much busier at 6 p.m. than it was at 5:30 a.m., so I stay to the right, pick up my pace. The thoughts of the day swirl in my head. The longer I walk, the more they make sense. How many souls through the ages have used their walks home (from the hunt, from the well, from the village) as a way to sort things out?

Walking home: The original way of decompression.

A Matter of Direction

A Matter of Direction

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This morning I enter the city from the east, the sun an orange disc behind me. Across a broad river and along a flat plain, the bus takes a route I don’t understand and scarcely notice.

For me, a car/Metro Orange Line/Metro Red Line commuter who enters and exits at least three vehicles before I walk into the office, this seems easy. Board a bus in one place, exit in another.

I think about approach and perspective, how the angle of light, the placement of shadows, can make such a difference.

I have arrived at the same destination from a different direction. And this has made an old place seem new again.

Rush Plus

Rush Plus

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As one who relies on the subway to carry me to and from the city, I’m often amused at Metro’s public relations efforts. It must be a losing game, trying to put a positive spin on an aging, overcrowded, mismanaged transportation system. 

The most recent example is what Metro folks are calling “Rush Plus,” which aims to ease overcrowding on the Orange line (the so-called “Orange Crush”) by providing less frequent service on the Blue line.

You have to admire the spunk — since one man’s “Rush Plus” is  another man’s “Rush Minus” — even if the program is deemed a failure in a few months. I like it because it reminds me of other attempts to make do with less. The brave comb-over of the balding man. The tasty dish that emerges from an empty pantry. The worn out, discouraged person who keeps on going (because, really, what else is there to do?) — but who does it with a jaunty step, a clear eye and a naive belief that today, somehow, will be different.

(Making do with less is the beachcomber’s way.)

Stampede!

Stampede!

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Most of the time we commuters behave ourselves. We move orderly from one conveyance to the other. But every so often something rials us up. It might be the sound of an oncoming train as we alight from our connecting line. We need to make this next train. We will be late otherwise. So what begins as a brisk walk becomes a trot and then finally a full-tilt run.

We dash down the stairs at Metro Center (the escalator is usually under construction), racing for what we think is the Orange Line to Vienna. Turns out, it’s the Orange Line to New Carrolton, the wrong direction. But at least we’re down here waiting, standing at our appointed spots. We are ready.

The funny thing about this behavior is how contagious it is. All it takes is one eager commuter to set us all off. It reminds me of a herd of cattle I once saw outside of Cody, Wyoming. We were driving back from our big trip west with the girls, and on the way out of this wonderful town we were caught up in a swirl of cattle, cowboys and dust. It was like being part of a great roundup — even though we were driving a minivan. But it gave me the feeling of being caught up in a great sweep of animal energy, moving forward just for the sake of moving forward.

Pity the suburban commuter, dashing from car to car, startling at the sound of an approaching train, all to save a minute or two. We are creatures of habit, members of the commuting herd. Our great brains are idling; we operate on instinct only.


W.H.D. Koerner, Cattle Stampede

Re-Entry

Re-Entry

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There is, first of all, the hour. In the holiday house, 5 a.m. is firmly in the “night” category. Now it is unequivocally morning.

Next are the clothes. I can’t pull on a pair of black stretch pants and an old sweatshirt. There are skirts and boots to consider, makeup to wear.

And now, in a few minutes, comes the commute. It, above all, separates days off from days “on.” I often think how different my life would be if I jumped in a car and drove 15 minutes to an office, parked and went in. Instead, I drive, park, walk, ride Metro, switch to another Metro line, ride two stops and then walk some more. Total time: one hour 10 minutes on the way in and one hour 30 on the way home.

The commute has a life of its own. It is a force to be reckoned with. Especially on re-entry day.