Out of State

Out of State

Comments 0 Comment

Over the weekend, I took a brief trip to the state of Maryland. It was only a quick visit, I was home in less than five hours. Yet so homebound have I become that it felt like I was taking off for a cross-country expedition.

While the go-go-ness of my life up till March has meant no time to process the people and places I was visiting, recent stay-at-home mandates haven’t given me much time to digest things, either. Because there’s never a shortage of work and chores, and low-level anxiety has a way of gumming up the gray matter.

Still, even a short sojourn helped. There was a new path, familiar beneath the feet — but it had been more than a year since I strolled it. There was fresh air from the river and bay, and, most of all, there were the dear faces of people I love but hadn’t seen since wintertime. 
It was a short trip but a good trip, proof that even a little break makes a difference. On the way home I sang in the car.  
A Day’s Work

A Day’s Work

Comments 0 Comment

Today I’ve spent roughly five hours (and counting) on a call with Apple Support. I have installed and uninstalled, saved and unsaved. I’ve held my phone up to the screen of my computer at the same time that I typed on that computer’s keyboard. 

To do this has required multiple plugs and passwords, a backup disc, three computers and a technician who is as calm as she is smart. “Patience is my middle name,” she said during our third (fourth?) hour together. I’ve gotten so used to her voice in my ear that I’m wondering if I can write a blog post without her. 
This is by no means finished. I imagine we will go on long past 5 p.m. But at the end of this I hope to be able to use my new work computer — and, given how long I’ve spent holding my smart phone up to my computer, be sporting a newly toned set of biceps. 
It’s all in a day’s work for this most un-tech-savvy of writers …
(Using a calm picture to soothe frayed nerves …)
The Fifth of July

The Fifth of July

Comments 0 Comment

It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t see a live fireworks display. But because I didn’t — or for a thousand other reasons, some of them valid — last night’s show was especially touching to me.

Maybe it was because of the anger in the air, justified to some extent but frightening, too, because it seems to be blinding us to all that is good about our country. Or maybe it was because I always appreciate a fine soundtrack, and televised viewing allows for that. (What could be better than fireworks plus “Stars and Stripes Forever”?)

Mostly I think it was because there is still so much good in our country, and we are having such a tough time of it, are hurting in so many ways. I worry that we have lost sight of what makes us great, of “e pluribus unum.” But last night, sitting in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn in my arms (dinner!) I found cause for optimism. I hope it lasts.

Funny Fourth

Funny Fourth

Comments 0 Comment

Funny that I won’t be seeing live fireworks this year …

Or going to any cook-outs …

Or singing any patriotic songs.

Funny that it doesn’t really feel like the Fourth.

Or maybe not so funny after all …

Lazy, Hazy, Crazy

Lazy, Hazy, Crazy

Comments 0 Comment

“Bring back those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer,” went the old Nat King Cole song, which I just learned from Wikipedia was originally a German tune.  It’s one of those ditties that once stuck in your brain remains there, so I will not link to it.

The song has been in my mind these last few days as we enter full-on summer, with temperatures in the 90s and rising humidity. It is, without a doubt, my favorite time of year. And now that I’m working at home I’m able to be out in it most of the day.

Besides avoiding a long and often-arduous commute, being outside this summer is my favorite part of the new arrangement. To be a part of the scene — part of the whole buzzing, bird-chirping, lawnmower’ing, afternoon-thunderstorm’ing package — is as close to mindfulness as I can get.

Books, Books and Books

Books, Books and Books

Comments 0 Comment

From a book I’m reading that I may have read once before, I caught an aha moment last night. It’s a passage from Jewelweed by David Rhodes, and it involves a conversation between a man in prison and the minister who comes to visit him.

“Is there anything you’d like me to bring next time?” she asks.

Yes, says the man in prison, whose name is Blake. “Three things … books, books and books.”

When the minister asks what kind of books, Blake says he will read most anything, but what he really wants are … “thick books with fine print, difficult sentences, long words, and enormous ideas, books written in a feverish hand by writers who hate the world yet can’t keep from loving it, whose feelings so demand to be understood that if they didn’t write them down they would go blind.”

Sounds good to me.

The Miniaturist

The Miniaturist

Comments 0 Comment

Today, Virginia enters “Phase 3,” which means that pools open, gyms can operate at 75-percent capacity and gatherings of 250 may be held.  But for many of us, I suspect, life will continue on its oh-so-different track.

Book group tonight will still be virtual. Going for groceries will remain my only weekly outside-the-house errand. Working-from-home has become routine, as have my take-a-quick-break strolls around the backyard.

It was on one of those yesterday that it dawned on me that this new life is making me a miniaturist. Not someone who builds tiny dollhouses or paints illuminated manuscripts, as tempting as those occupations might be, but “miniaturist” in the sense of paying attention to small things.

I notice the gall on the poplar and the chicory that has sprung up by the fence. Those parts of the yard that I seldom used to enter have become my secondary landscape, the place I go to make the world go away. And there is beauty in the small and quiet, the “violet by the mossy stone, half hidden from the eye.” 

Moderation

Moderation

Comments 0 Comment

A metaphor came to mind today: As is true in many houses of this era (mid-1970s), the venting leaves much to be desired. Despite numerous adjustments, in the summer it’s still too warm upstairs, too cold in the basement and, though I would like to say it’s just right on the first floor, that’s not entirely true. Let’s just say it’s less extreme than the others.

What I was thinking about this morning while adjusting the thermostat — with one of us in the basement, another on the first floor and the third up above — is about regulation, moderation, in general, how making one of us slightly more comfortable may make the others slightly less so. I was thinking, in short, of sacrifice: that the good of others may depend upon our discomfort.

I wan’t intending this to be about mask-wearing. My initial thought was much more general. But given the times we live in, it wasn’t long before it trended this way.

Spacious Mind

Spacious Mind

Comments 0 Comment

A happy mind is a spacious mind, intoned the voice that I have come to associate with calm. It’s the voice of the Headspace application (its founder, as a matter of fact), and it has been my guide on this several-month journey I’ve been taking recently, dipping my toe into the shallowest end of the deep waters of meditation.

Any progress I’ve made has been courtesy of my place of employ, which has sponsored Headspace meditation sessions every workday since mid-March, most of which I’ve attended.

Some days I’m a hopeless case and can barely follow the instructions. But other days I can feel myself in another place, one where thoughts flit into my mind and just as easily float out again; one where following the breath, flowing with the breath, is becoming a little more second nature.

Today, when I heard this line that a happy mind is a spacious mind, a mind that has room for other people, other ideas, I’ll admit I broke the first rule of meditation. I didn’t let that thought move through and out. I savored it a bit, I pondered the implications.

Equating happiness with spaciousness, yes, it works — though you could just as easily equate it with coziness and smallness and manageability. But in this case I imagined the clear sky that you reach when you soar above the clouds. The spaciousness of the heavens, of the mind unencumbered.

Drippy Walk

Drippy Walk

Comments 0 Comment

A drippy walk last week had me dodging raindrops. When I left my parked car I thought the sun would burn the clouds away, but the farther I walked the less certain I was of that. 

Still, it was a grand way to spend an early summer afternoon, making my way along moss-slicked paths, inhaling the rain-spun air, exploring an unfamiliar corner of the neighborhood.
My shoes and shirt were growing soggier by the minute but I couldn’t bear to turn around. The canopy was catching the worst of the weather, and the moisture seemed to accentuate everything — the leaves were greener, the air was fresher — and I was walking through it, gladly.