Seize the Day!

Seize the Day!

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Their sound holds within it the rattle of a snake and the swish of a beaded curtain. It has more crescendoes than a brass band on a June afternoon.

The cicadas have brought us quickly to the soul of summer.  They have taken us to the brink of that shimmering, simmering time of year when everything seems more intensely alive.

Yesterday, on the Glade Trail, I moved into and out of various cicada hot zones, places where the critters congregate more plentifully, where they sing their songs with more abandon than others. 

Maybe it’s because they prefer laying their eggs on these branches (in our backyard they seem to like the crepe myrtle more than the dogwood, for instance). Or maybe it’s for some other reason buried deep in the cicada psyche.

All I know is that seeing them mate and fly, hearing them shout and sing, knowing what I do of their lifespan and life story, leaves me with one urgent message: Carpe diem, folks, seize the day. 

 

 

The 70s

The 70s

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This post is not about bell bottoms and polyester, the Bee Gees and disco.  It’s not about the decade of the ’70s but the temperature of the 70s, a most delightful one to walk in, talk in, be in. 

This spring we’ve had a lot of 50s and 60s, and, recently, some 80s and 90s. I was worried we might skip the 70s altogether … until this week. 

But ah, here it is, the temperature of nothingness, of skin meeting air, of long sleeves or short, of no heat or air conditioning.  The temperature of balmy breezes and wildflowers, of one layer not three. 

It’s the 70s. Bring it on! 

Lessons for a Lifetime

Lessons for a Lifetime

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He stood behind the lectern on one leg, resting the other, knee crooked, on his desk. I’m still not sure how he achieved this position without falling over, but somehow he did. His sleeves were rolled up, and his voice was husky. 

Toiling in the vineyards of academia can be a lot of work. But Dr. James Ferguson did that work, and because he did, legions of Hanover College students fell in love with The Magic Mountain and The Brothers Karamazov, with Faulkner and Bellow and Eliot. 

Dr. Ferguson, who died May 12, was the kind of teacher you get once in a lifetime — if you’re lucky. Though I studied with professors who published more, whose names were more recognized in literary circles, Dr. Ferguson was the real thing: a man who loved the great books and thrived on helping others love them, too. 

The details of his life that I learned from his obituary — that he came from a family of Dust Bowl migrants who moved from Missouri to California and slept for a while in their car, that he served in Korea and got his Ph.D.  with the help of the GI Bill, that he took care of his wife, who had a chronic illness, and his mother, who lived to 102 — tell me that his didn’t just teach the great books, he lived the great life. 

But these facts don’t surprise me.  His respect for the written word seemed to flow from his whole being. What I took from him was to love literature not for where it could take me but for what I took from it—  lessons for a lifetime. 

(“The Point” at Hanover College, where Dr. Ferguson taught from 1963 to 1992.)

Discipline

Discipline

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What a solid word it is, the ascender and descender anchoring it to the line, the three i’s a constant, the other consonants rounding it out. Though it’s difficult to see the word without the lens of meaning, even its structure seems no-nonsense.

Discipline for so long my way of life, a particular discipline made for the paid workforce. And now, the freedom, intoxicating and terrifying, an end to the regimentation I chafed against for years.

And yet, some discipline still. In some ways even more, but of a different type, one that I devise and (I hope) enforce. 

Discipline so different it seems to require a new word. Not control, structure or regulation. None of those will do. Some word I’ve yet to come up with. 

I’ll let you know when I do. 

(A deer spotted up close on yesterday’s walk, which has nothing much to do with discipline but was a photo I had handy.)

In Formation

In Formation

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In honor of Memorial Day, the movie channel has been running World War II-era films. I’ve caught parts of several — “The Great Escape,” “Destination Tokyo” — plus a War Department short about the U.S. Army Air Corp.

In the film, narrated by then-actor Ronald Reagan, a young cowboy from the boonies becomes a war hero. We watch him go through basic training, meet the people who knew him back when, follow his improbable journey from ranch life to flying B-17s over Japan. 

What struck me about the flying scenes is the tightness of the formations. The crew members (including my Dad) were not only united within their Flying Fortresses, but were nestled together outside of them, too. They did not fly into battle alone. 

As I embark on another trip around the sun, I’m grateful for the ones who travel with me. 

May in Layers

May in Layers

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I’m hoping this is the last day in May I wear three layers of clothing. I’m typing these words in my winter running tights, merino wool base layer, another wool sweater over that and a sweatshirt on top for good measure. 

I have fuzzy warm socks on my feet. And I think — yes, I’m sure, I can hear it humming — that the heat has just come on. And that means the temperature in the house has dipped down below 65. 

Yes, the planet is warming. And in a few days we may be sweltering. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing I was in shorts and t-shirt right now. 

Japanese Garden

Japanese Garden

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As May gallops to a close, I’m immersing myself once again in the calm oasis of Portland’s Japanese garden. Yes, it’s 2,800 miles away now, but I have it right up here in my noggin, sloshing around with today’s to-do list and other trivia.

It wasn’t difficult to take decent photos at the garden. Everywhere I pointed my phone camera was a beautifully framed shot. From artfully raked gravel plots to gently cascading waterfalls. 

That’s because, in a Japanese garden, beauty is cultivated most of all. 

Feeling Sorry for Cicadas

Feeling Sorry for Cicadas

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I arrived home to the sound of Brood X, the 17-year cicadas that have been biding their time underground since 2004 and are now living the high life in Virginia and other states. 

They are funny critters, singing and mating and getting stuck on windshield wipers, where one got a free ride for a few minutes yesterday as I drove home from the Reston trails. 

The hum they make sounds like a commotion in the next county, like something big is going on somewhere else, which indeed it is. 

But as I dodged their exoskeleton carcasses yesterday on my walk, my amazement at their presence was tempered with pity for their plight. What a life …. 17 years of nothing followed by three weeks of way too much. Theirs is not a path of moderation. 

On the other hand, who am I to judge a bug? My life may seem just as strange to them.

Big Again

Big Again

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I have a habit of not wanting to leave the places I’m visiting, and yesterday I almost didn’t. Confusion about departure times meant we missed our original return flight. Luckily, we were re-routed to another airport and finally made it home — though six hours later than planned. 

The first hours and days back after a trip are always a strange time. Life is mostly as it was but with subtle differences. The old house touches my heart with its creaky floors and familiarity. I don’t have to wonder when I wake up, where am I now? I can tell by the placement of lamp and beside table, by the feel of the covers under my chin. 

But the trip has altered the house and the gaze with which I see it. The roses in Portland are part of me now, the walk around Lake Union in Seattle, too. The Japanese Garden and the Japanese American Museum, Cherry Street and Alberta Street — they’re all in there. The crusty bread and the little dogs. 

It has been almost a year with no travel. The world of house and yard were closing in on me. But now … the world is big again. 

Prevailing Westerlies

Prevailing Westerlies

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Yesterday was a train trip up from Portland to Seattle. Today, we fly east with the prevailing westerlies. Which means that, at least theoretically, it will take an hour less to return than it did to arrive. 

I’m heading back to Virginia with 10 days of dirty laundry, five new books, a passel of memories and plenty of inspiration for the days ahead. 

The best trips never stop giving.