Four Years

Four Years

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Four years ago today I started what I still think of as my “new” job. I moved from print to digital journalism, from editing a magazine to being a jack-of-all-trades writer/editor penning op-eds, success stories, profiles, advertising copy and whatever else needs to be done.

On the Friday of my first week I wrote a brief history of the organization. Seven months later, I was sent around the world to report and write stories in Indonesia and Myanmar.

Before I started, my new manager told me that working at Winrock was a little like drinking from a fire hose. He was not exaggerating. There’s hardly been a dull moment.

Turns out, I’m a little addicted to the fast-paced workplace. I thrive in it, though increasingly it wears me out. But I always do better with too much on my plate than not enough. And right now, of course, I’m grateful to have this work.

One thing I know for sure, and I say this with great fondness: In this job, I’l always have too much on my plate.

(Street scene in Khulna, Bangladesh, just one of the amazing sights I’ve seen through my “new” job.)

Open Pavement

Open Pavement

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Last week I ran an errand that involved driving home via the commuting route I used to take B.C. (Before Covid). I came down Nutley, turned left on Old Courthouse then left again on Route 123 before taking a right on Hunter Mill then the rest of the way home.

There were almost no cars on the road, as you might expect, and as eerie as it was, the commuting self in me (homo commutus?) rejoiced. Here, finally, was something we all crave around here, something rare and precious — open pavement.

As these weeks of quarantine give way to something more ominous — weeks (months?) of uncertain re-openings, re-closings and second-guessings, I think back on those empty roads I saw last week. They were broad, they were empty, they were beautiful. But as we all know … they can’t last.


(An almost-empty road in Colorado. It’s harder to find pictures of empty roads around here.)

Contented with Containment

Contented with Containment

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The more I read of Niall Williams’s This is Happiness (more about this wonderful book in a later post), the more I realize that, although I grew up in Lexington, Kentucky, I also grew up in an Irish storytelling culture. Although on the surface my dad seemed to be the chief yarn-spinner, Mom was no slouch in the storytelling department, and her mother, my nana, could tell tall tales with the best of them.

One of Mom’s stories, which may have come in part from her mother — or at least happened when Mom was a little girl — involved a man whose name was Mangione, I think, or maybe Mahoney. This man lived on High or Maxwell or one of the tree-lined streets around the University of Kentucky.  And one fine day he went into his house, climbed up into an attic room, and — Mom always said this part dramatically — never came out again.

As a child I was always fascinated with the mechanics of this arrangement. Was there a bathroom up there? Did he receive his food on a tray? As an adult I realize that this man must have have had agoraphobia or some other anxiety that kept him from leaving the house. But whatever the reason, I’ve often thought of his as a cautionary tale, what happens to people who don’t get out enough — they simply stop wanting to leave.

Is our sheltering-in-place creating an epidemic of agoraphobia, a generation of hermits? Will the quarantines be relaxed, the doors thrown open, and people just yawn and say, that’s fine, but I’ll stay inside, thank you very much.

I feel it in myself, this lessening of desire to be out and about in the world, this contentment with containment. I wonder if others feel the same way.

Earth Day at 50

Earth Day at 50

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If Earth Day was a person, it would need reading glasses by now. The holiday that once seemed the epitome of peace, love and kumbaya may look a little dated in these decidedly less than peace, love and kumbaya times. But although reduced travel and worldwide lockdowns are giving us a tiny reprieve from global warming, Earth Day is still more important than ever before.

Last night I watched a documentary about Norman Borlaug, a Nobel prize winning scientist who is credited with saving up to a billion lives by launching the Green Revolution. The film described his laser-like focus to solve the problem of world hunger — and the selfless way he went about it (for instance, he never patented one of his new hybrids).

But the documentary also pointed out the legacy of the hybrid wheat Borlaug created, the water and fertilizer it requires to grow, the damage it has done to our environment and to social structures as displaced farmers flocked to cities, swelling their populations to the breaking point.

The film made clear that the seeds of one generation’s problems are planted in the solutions of the previous generation. We all do the best we can with the time we have.

What will we do, now? That’s the question Earth Day asks of us.

Elevated Apes

Elevated Apes

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“It is the same shabby-genteel sentiment, the same vanity of birth which makes men prefer to believe that they are degenerated angels, rather than elevated apes.”  — William Winwood Reade

I thought of this quotation while on a recent walk with Copper. The little guy is old now and seems to have lost most of his hearing and much of his sight. But there’s nothing wrong with his nose. He must retain most of the 300 million olfactory receptors dogs are reputed to have because he seems to enjoy sniffing now more than ever.

But he’s not the only one. Every day on our strolls together (and on my solo walks), I take a deep whiff of lilac. Say what you will about stopping to smell the roses, it’s the lilacs I walk across the street to inhale.

Savoring their delicious aroma gives me a hint of the pleasure dogs take in their own frequent sniffing. It is, then, a unifying activity, one that reminds me that we are “elevated apes” rather than “degenerated angels.”


(I first read this quotation in the book Love, Sunrise and Elevated Apes, by Nina Leen, a volume I treasure for its wisdom and photography.) 

Intentionality

Intentionality

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In the guided meditation I’ve been doing through work we’ve been exploring the idea of intentionality, of directing our practice toward others who will benefit from it, those at home or in the (now virtual) workplace.

It’s something I recall doing at a yoga class I took years ago, devoting the effort, the realizations and the calmness to a cause beyond ourselves. Back then one or two of my children were still in their teenage years, so I never had a lack of intention.

But I’ve realized today as I’ve pondered this practice (not during the meditation itself, oh no, never then; I’m not thinking about anything then!) is that it’s familiar from even longer ago. It reminds me of something I was taught in my Catholic grammar school, which was to “offer up” our daily trials for the poor souls in Purgatory.

I’m not sure Purgatory is still a thing (a place?) anymore, but the notion of directing our collective effort toward a greater good very much appeals to me. It means that there is a reservoir of good will abroad in the land that we can add to and draw from as needed.  And surely we could all benefit from that.

Limit Two

Limit Two

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The grocery store signage of the hour doesn’t advertise the latest sale, doesn’t promise half price or double coupons. The grocery store signage of the hour says “Limit Two.” Customers are told they can buy no more than two liquid soap dispensers, two gallons of milk, two dozen eggs, two pounds of butter and two boxes of pasta.

It is the language of scarcity, the language of a pandemic and, in this topsy-turvy world in which we now live, perhaps also the language of the future.

Are we, after so much abundance, entering an era of scarcity? It certainly seems so. There are fewer jobs, fewer certainties — and most definitely fewer rolls of toilet paper.

But even after the production of goods has been ramped up I wonder if we will keep the “Limit Two” mentality. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Because what Limit Two does most of all is to acknowledge that there are those who come after us — and they will be wanting their milk, eggs and butter too.

(Photo: NJ.com)

Long Woods Walk

Long Woods Walk

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Yesterday, I went out early for the weekly groceries, donned mask and gloves, observed social distancing, came home and wiped everything off before putting it all away and then decided …  I needed a walk. And not just any walk — but a long woods walk.

I took a Reston path that leads to the Cross County Trail. It’s a section of the CCT that I often stroll, but yesterday I went further, into a place where the first sign you see warns you of snakes in the area.

It’s a fitting intro to a wilder, more hike-like area. It was easy to imagine I was miles away not just from desk and to-dos — but also from the section of trail I just covered.

I nodded to a father and two sons jogging down the trail; to a man and his children who were exploring ants on a log; and to several others out enjoying the sun and pretending this was an ordinary spring Friday.

The music in my ears seemed redundant, so I pulled out the buds and listened to woodpeckers and robins. I stopped on a bridge over the Snakeden Branch Stream and heard the water talk to itself. How lovely and clear it looked as it tumbled over rocks, all white and frothy as it landed.

It was almost two hours later when I got back to the car. The walk had turned into a hike. The day seemed larger and brighter than it had before.

Old Blue Shoes

Old Blue Shoes

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I had been meaning to replace them late last year, then in January … and February … and March. But by the time retail shopping shut down last month I still hadn’t bought a new pair of running shoes to replace my beat-up, ratty-looking old ones.

It’s not as if I couldn’t purchase a pair of replacements online. But I like to try on shoes before buying them.

So I soldier on, hoping the toe hole won’t grow much larger, hoping that the soles won’t shed any more rubber, that the heels won’t grow any lumpier than they are now.

Making do. It’s what we do now.

(This title a tip of the hat to New Blue Shoes, one of Claire’s favorite books when she was a little girl.)

Cold Air, Cut Grass

Cold Air, Cut Grass

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If the aroma of cut grass is the soul of summer, then how do you describe the way it smells on a cold April afternoon? To me there has always been something both melancholic and hopeful about the scent.

It’s the promise of warmth, not the actuality. But it’s also freshness without qualification; when it’s young and hungry, when its juices flow freely.

To catch a whiff of a freshly mown lawn on a brisk spring day is to imagine all the delights that lie in store. But it’s also to imagine how quickly they can wither.

It is the seasonal reverse but the poetic equivalent of what Gerard Manley Hopkins describes in Spring and Fall:

It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.