Here’s to the 2s

Here’s to the 2s

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We are launched now into a universe of 2s. The year 2022. Grandchildren who will be turning two this year. And something else that will, I’m sure, soon come to mind. 

Time to ponder the beauty of the number, its rounded hump, the way the zero looks tucked between the 2s. There is an elegance there, a hopefulness, too. 

Long ago there was an advertisement for a car rental company, Avis, I believe, which said, in effect, “We’re number two. We try harder.”

Let’s hope this year’s 2s try harder, too. 

(Photo: Creative Commons)

Gliding Smoothly

Gliding Smoothly

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What is this urge to declutter, to glide simply and smoothly into the new year? Last evening I felt a sudden need to tidy up my desktop. Into the trash went receipts for orders already delivered, backup copies of documents already submitted.

This morning I’m checking streaming entertainment accounts, wondering if I can shed any of them. Perhaps the doubling-down of a pandemic is not the time to have fewer entertainment options, though, so I’ve left them temporarily in place. 

Of course, the tidying that really needs to happen isn’t virtual; it’s the all-too-real piles of papers and files, the boxes of old clothes and bins of toys that I can no longer say I’m “holding for the grandchildren.” The grandchildren are here and they won’t be needing any armless Barbies, thank you very much.

Getting rid of all that stuff, I’m afraid, will have to wait till 2022. 

(These mallards will have no trouble gliding smoothly into the new year.)

Sic Transit

Sic Transit

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Because our new bird, Toby, is a hungry critter and eats more than his cage-mate, Alfie, he also makes more of a mess. Seeds pile up in the bottom of the cage, other stuff, too. I find myself cleaning the bird cage far more frequently than I used to. Which means I’m thinking about the transitoriness of journalism.

The opening of the late, great television show “Lou Grant,” starring the late, great Ed Asner, begins with a bird chirping in a tree, the tree being felled to make paper, presses rolling as the newspaper is printed, then back to a chirping bird again as the day-old newspaper is used to line the bottom of a cage.

Back when I only dreamed of being a journalist, I used to watch this show. I ended up writing for magazines instead of newspapers, but the dream remained, and largely was fulfilled. Watching this show again reminds me of how it felt at the beginning, the irony and the gallows humor and even the nobility of it all.  But always among these feelings was an awareness of how fleeting it all was,. No matter how precious the words and how important the topic, the next day, they would be covered with husks and feathers.

Now more than eight out of ten of Americans obtain their news from digital devices. The daily news cycle has given way to the hourly one. Newspapers may be dying … but the transitoriness remains. Sic transit gloria mundi. Thus passes the glory of the world.
Ticking Clock

Ticking Clock

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As I mentioned yesterday, these are open days. But what I don’t say is that the week between Christmas and New Years has usually been open for me. 

It was open when I was writing for a nonprofit and, before that, for a university. It was open during my freelance career. About the only time it wasn’t was early in my magazine-writing days, when I was a lowly assistant editor and had no accrued vacation time. I still remember how weird it felt to be going into an office the final week of December, even an office in midtown Manhattan. I was supposed to be staring into a fireplace or admiring a Christmas tree, not proofing copy!

Until this year, though, these precious holiday hours came with a price tag, a ticking clock. They always seemed luxuriously long on December 26th and 27th, but by December 29th and 30th, I was always wondering where the time had gone. 

These hours seemed to disappear at lightning speed, far more quickly than ordinary time, and inevitably I had nothing to show for them. That was the point, of course. It’s still the point. Only now the ticking clock has — sort of — disappeared.

Open Calendar

Open Calendar

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A tree, a couch, an open week. These are days when dreaming is possible, when sitting still and doing nothing is not only permissible but almost encouraged. 

School is out, holiday to-dos are to-done. The calendar is open, the tasks complete. Even nature seems to be holding its breath. Autumn behind us, winter yet to truly begin.

Yesterday I watched two old movies and an episode of “The Ascent of Man.” Today I may put away some gifts and do a bit of tidying.

But then again … I may not.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

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Once again I’ll re-run this blog post, which I wrote ten years ago. Merry Christmas!

12/24/11

Our old house has seen better days. The siding is dented, the walkway is cracked, the yard is muddy and tracked with Copper’s paw prints. Inside is one of the fullest and most aromatic trees we’ve ever chopped down. Cards line the mantel, the fridge is so full it takes ten minutes to find the cream cheese. Which is to say we are as ready as we will ever be. The family is gathering. I need to make one more trip to the grocery store.

This morning I thought about a scene from one of my favorite Christmas movies, one I hope we’ll have time to watch in the next few days. In “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Jimmy Stewart has just learned he faces bank fraud and prison, and as he comes home beside himself with worry, he grabs the knob of the banister in his old house — and it comes off in his hand. He is exasperated at this; it seems to represent his failures and shortcomings.

By the end of the movie, after he’s been visited by an angel, after his family and friends have rallied around him in an unprecedented way, after he’s had a chance to see what the world would have been like without him — he grabs the banister knob again. And once again, it comes off in his hand. But this time, he kisses it. The house is still cold and drafty and in need of repair. But it has been sanctified by friendship and love and solidarity.

Christmas doesn’t take away our problems. But it counters them with joy. It reminds us to appreciate the humble, familiar things that surround us every day, and to draw strength from the people we love. And surely there is a bit of the miraculous in that. 

‘Tis the Season

‘Tis the Season

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The door is wreathed, the gifts are wrapped, the cards are mailed. But there is one more sign that the holidays have truly begun: I’m having cookies for breakfast.

It was a matter of necessity. I needed to remove at least two from the cookie tin in order to fit them in. 

But the fact is that all dietary decorum has broken down. 

‘Tis the season…

Three Paths

Three Paths

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This is not about three paths — or two, for that matter — diverging in the woods, taking one and never knowing if it makes the difference. This is not about life choices, in other words. 

This is about three paths walked in the last three days: a Reston trail on Monday, the W&OD on Tuesday and Franklin Farm today. One shady and still, the next cloudy and cold, today’s breezy and bright. 

I think about how often I’ve strode up and down my neighborhood’s main drag, how boring it can be, how I thrive on variety, and how grateful I am that this week, at least, I’ve had it.

Two Solstices

Two Solstices

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We have one Christmas, one Easter, one Independence Day. But we have two solstices: one for the shortest day and one for the longest.

As I sit here this morning, watching the world slowly lighten, I think about the imminent wisdom of these dual celebrations. You could see one as our pinnacle and one as our nadir. But there is a hopeful message in each, too.

In summer we revel in the long twilight, the early morning, the profusion. In winter we tell ourselves, it’s all up from here. 

We live in the present for one, in the future with the other. Surely we could do with a little of each.