Salute to Sunrise

Salute to Sunrise

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My classical radio station has begun playing a salute to the sunrise. Every morning at 7:14 (can it really be that late now?) or, eventually, 6:05 (ah, that’s better!), you can hear a flourish of strings and a fanfare of trumpets. Look out the window, the host says, at another glorious sunrise.

I like this because it reminds us of a meteorological miracle, a fact that can be ignored or noticed. We can stay in the darkness or turn toward the light. We can keep our eyes down, staring at our phone, or we can lift them up, to the heavens.

It’s easier to look down. Not just because gravity pulls us this way, but because we are busy. We have work email to check, social media to scan. But looking up just takes a minute, and in that minute we can reorder our day.

Listening In

Listening In

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While I consider myself a law-abiding citizen, I do enjoy eavesdropping. The act of listening in on a conversation is usually not criminal, of course, but it can be. I like to think I keep the habit in check.

Nevertheless, if I’m out to dinner I sometimes listen harder to the conversation at the next table than I do to my own.  This is not an admirable trait, but I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s the writer in me, the observer. But maybe that’s just an excuse.

This morning I realized how much I eavesdrop while walking (walks dropping?), having harvested two juicy bits of dialogue just on today’s stroll from train to office:

“It was real Louisiana gumbo,” said one camo-clad soldier to another as a group of them breezed past me as I emerged from Metro.

The other was uttered by a top-coated, loafer-wearing man who was striding beside me down a Crystal City street.  “Yes,” he said into his phone. “Northern Macedonia.”

Ah, the tales one could spin from these tidbits. But alas, I have other work to do, so for now, these snippets will remain … just snippets.

Malawi Memories

Malawi Memories

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This time last year I was catching my first glimpse of Africa’s Great Rift Valley. In Malawi for work, I was bouncing around the countryside in a car full of colleagues, exploring small villages and learning what they were doing to help fight child labor.

Some villages built homes for teachers, tidy brick structures that provided a fresh start for an instructor and his family. Others started commercial enterprises — a grain mill or a dormitory for older students — and the money they made from these was used for school fees or uniforms.

It was a quick trip but a wonderful introduction to the vast plains and awesome peaks of this beautiful and warm-hearted country. And this week I’m reliving it, seeing it again in memory, marveling that somehow, improbably, but in actual fact … I was there.

A Different Day

A Different Day

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A week ago today I awoke in a tiny house in the Blue Ridge Mountains. On my to-do list: write, read, and savor the landscape. Not bad as to-do lists go.

Today’s list is looking a lot more businesslike: Editing articles, writing headlines, having meetings. It’s still not bad as to-do lists go, but it’s significantly less creative than last week’s occupations.

But how much depends on what we make of it? I write from my fifth-floor window seat (loosely construed, this term “window seat” — all it means is that my chair is pulled up close to the window) and the sun glints off the curved corner of the building next door. Leaves fly in the brisk wind, and they are gleaming too, as another day, a different day, begins.

Typographical Tone of Voice

Typographical Tone of Voice

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If this post goes according to plan, I may insult you several times. That’s because I am, in that old-school, print-based way, using periods at the ends of sentences. (See, I just did it again. And again.)

In Because Internet, Gretchen McCulloch brings the term “typographical tone of voice” to my (somewhat luddite) attention. Exhibit A, she says, is considering all caps to be shouting (which is hardly news to anyone, even luddites). But a more subtle expression of typographical tone of voice is what she calls the “sincerity exclamation point.”

Ah yes, I think, this is why I’m using using exclamation points so much despite inwardly chafing at them. This is not due to grammatical sloppiness, but to friendliness and cooperation. When I say “Thanks!” at the end of a business email, I’m merely indicating that, sure, I don’t mind editing this piece quickly. I’m happy to do it (even if I’m not).

Periods are another matter. “For people whose linguistic norms are oriented toward the offline world, the most neutral way of separating one utterance from the next is with a dash or a string of dots,” McCulloch writes. But for someone whose linguistic orientation is more modern, the line break is the most effective way of separating utterances. In that case, then, the period is extraneous, and perhaps holds other meanings. In fact, it could even be considered passive aggressive.

But don’t worry, McCulloch assures us, in formal writing periods are still emotionally neutral. To which she adds this puckish footnote: “Or at least, I sure hope they are, because otherwise you’re halfway through a book where I’ve been passive-aggressive to you the whole time. SORRY.”

Appreciating Advent

Appreciating Advent

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It’s the first day of December and the first Sunday of Advent, and I’ve been trying to remember the last time we had such a tidy confluence. With Christmas on a Wednesday, that means each Advent Sunday will have its due, too.

I love Advent — the medieval-sounding hymns, the plain purple vestments, the wreaths and calendars, the air of joyful expectation.  Advent is about preparation, and I love that, too, because it reminds me that there are things worth waiting for and they are all the sweeter once they arrive.

Advent is often lost in the shuffle, folded into the Christmas season, but it has much to offer on its own. It reminds us to plan and anticipate, to watch and wonder, to read and reflect — and to do all of that secure in the knowledge that what we search for we will find, what we long for will be given to us.

White Stripes

White Stripes

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Crosswalks in my neighborhood are getting a facelift. A set of them on a road I drive every weekend have new paint, flashing lights and big signs in neon yellow to remind motorists to stop.

In my work neighborhood I’ve started taking a new route to the office, one that involves a crosswalk and the forbearance of drivers.

It’s interesting to be on either end of crosswalk etiquette — as a pedestrian on weekdays and a driver on weekends. It helps me see how important it is to share the road, to look out for the errant ambler or the distracted driver.

More than anything else, a crosswalk encourages engagement. Those white stripes on the road can be a walker’s — and a driver’s — best friend.

Hair of the Dog

Hair of the Dog

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A grocery store is a funny place to find one’s self on the day after Thanksgiving. There was a hair-of-the-dog quality to it.

On the other hand, it was a very good time to be food shopping. I had the place almost to myself.

I bought more eggs and bread and dinner fixings for tomorrow night (tonight will be leftovers) and some for the week to come. I avoided the Thanksgiving-themed napkins that were 75 percent off. Yes, they’re a good deal, but I won’t be able to find them next year.

In that way, emboldened, I enter the holiday shopping season.

(Alas, I did not shop at a picturesque farmer’s market this morning.)

Giving Thanks

Giving Thanks

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This morning I woke to find two of our three daughters sleeping in the house. They’d returned from the grand adventure of seeing “Hamilton” in Richmond and had driven back here in the wee hours. I wasn’t expecting them till later, so seeing the car in the driveway and finding the two of them asleep in separate corners of the house was the perfect start to a day of giving thanks.

I’ve read that if we forget all other prayers but remember this simple one — “Thank you, Lord” — ours will be a rich prayer life.

It’s so easy (for me, at least) to get caught up in the web of daily cares and to-dos that gratitude, which should be the ballast upon which the rest of life rests, is overlooked. But how hard can it be to say or think “Thank you, Lord” or  “Thank you, ____ [insert Divine Being of your choice]”?

Not hard at all, it would seem. In fact, imminently do-able. So on this bright, windy morning, I remind myself not only to give thanks today, but to give thanks always and everyday for all I have been given.

Miles and Miles and Miles …

Miles and Miles and Miles …

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On the second day of my getaway I wrote in the morning and explored in the afternoon. About 20 minutes from where I was bunking, there was an entrance to Shenandoah National Park’s Skyline Drive. I’d been there before — it’s less than 90 minutes from my house — but I hadn’t been there in years, so I was looking with fresh eyes … with, dare I say it, eyes of love?

Virginia is for lovers, you know, though it’s taken some of us a while to love the state in which we live. But this reluctant Virginian was swept off her feet yesterday. First of all, the weather was perfect. It was almost 60 degrees, clear and bright. There weren’t many people around, and those who were there drove slowly, seemingly as much in awe as I was.

I did a couple of quick hikes, but what grabbed me most were the views. Skyline Drive runs along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains, so you don’t just have one vista, you have dozens. At some point I realized that if I didn’t stop pulling over at every overlook I would never get home.

I looked at the ridges, one behind another, as close to infinity as we are likely to have this side of heaven. In my head was that song from The Who: “I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles.”

It reminded me of flying; there was the same above-it-all-ness, the sense of seeing more clearly because we can see farther. Real world problems didn’t go away, but for a few hours they seemed smaller and more manageable. They seemed miles away too.