All Talk

All Talk

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I’m not methodical enough to measure this, but I wonder if my walking pace varies when I listen to radio voices rather than music. 

On Sundays, I can hear re-aired, commercial-free versions of “Meet the Press” and other programs, so I often time my walk to coincide with these shows, which run every hour from noon till 5 p.m. And some mornings I listen to news rather than music. It gets the heart pumping and stands in for the newspaper if it’s not my morning to have it.

But beyond the pace there is the tone…

Walking with talk in my head creates a conversation, one-sided for the most part (unless I blurt out a retort to a particularly egregious statement).

But walking with music in my head allows for the inner dialogue that is such a healing part of the stroll.

Second-Hand Rain

Second-Hand Rain

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An early walk this morning into a moist and muggy landscape, breathing steam — or what felt like it.

There were puddles beside the road and the leaves were gleaming from last night’s dousing. We’ve been humid for days, but rain-fed humidity is different somehow, less oppressive, cleaner.

It wasn’t until the end of the stroll that I saw the second-hand rain. A brisk breeze was stirring the high branches of the oaks and sending down a spray of drops that caught the sun and shone there. It was last night’s precipitation recycled beautifully in the morning light. I walked through it as if through an illuminated mist.

It was a beautiful way to start the day. But now I’m dashing inside from moment to moment trying to dodge the second-hand rain … which is landing lightly on my computer keyboard as I try to write this post.

Walking in Pace

Walking in Pace

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The tiger does it, in his cage. Weary parents do it, up and down a hall, hoping that the baby in their arms will soon nod off to sleep.

Pacing is to walking as the treadmill is to the sidewalk. It is walking on adrenaline, super-charged with nervous energy that must be let out, even if there’s nowhere to put it.

While I’m lucky enough to have a strip of asphalt on which to pound out my anxieties, there have been times when nothing made me feel better than walking the circuit through my house: living room, hall, office, kitchen … living room, hall, office, kitchen.

I’ve never thought this a failing, only a useful habit. But reading A Gentleman in Moscow, by Amor Towles, has given me second thoughts:

…[I]t had been the Count’s experience that men prone to pace are always on the verge of acting impulsively. For while the men who pace are being whipped along by logic, it is a multifaceted sort of logic, which brings them no closer to a clear understanding, or even a state of conviction. Rather it leaves them at such a loss that they end up exposed to the influence of the merest whim, to the seduction of the rash or reckless act—almost as if they had never considered the matter at all.

I’ll never look at pacing the same way again.

(It’s not pacing if you do it in a portico.)

Feeling Tropical

Feeling Tropical

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… And why not, with these in the front yard.?

The elephant ears (colocasia) started as tubers in June, but they’re as tall as I am now and show no signs of stopping. I snapped a picture of them over the weekend.

Elephant ears salute the sun, wave in the breeze and shade weeds (I’m hoping enough to kill a few).

Rain and dew pool on their soft leaves. They give the front yard a primeval look, which matches the ferns.

While I’d rather have an English cottage garden, it’s hard to argue with success.

Weekend’s End

Weekend’s End

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Usually I celebrate the beginning of the weekend. Tonight I celebrate the end.

Well, maybe not celebrate, but savor.  Because I don’t want it to end. I want it to continue.

It was well-balanced: There was time with family and friends, time to read and write, walk and stretch, mow and weed, cook and clean.

What more do I want?

More of the above.  That’s all.

Citizen Abo

Citizen Abo

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When the time came, Appolinaire stood with 47 other immigrants, raised his right hand and recited the oath of allegiance. He was wearing a new blue suit that he bought in Benin. He looked like a million dollars.

After he recited the oath, he waited his turn to shake hands with a customs officer and be handed his certificate of naturalization.

Also receiving their certificates yesterday were immigrants from Macedonia, Honduras, India, Nepal, Cameroon, Sierra Leone, Colombia, Turkey, El Salvador, Ethiopia, Denmark, Canada, Sweden, Mexico, Brazil, Bangladesh, Afghanistan, South Korea, Guatemala, the United Kingdom, Russia, Hungary, Nicaragua, Ghana, Bolivia, Pakistan and one other country that I didn’t catch.

They are our newest citizens, the most recent immigrants in a land that is made of them.

E Pluribus Unum

E Pluribus Unum

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I imagine there will be more than one post about this momentous occasion. This is my first:

Today, my son-in-law, Appolinaire Abo, becomes an American citizen. We are gathering soon at a federal office building to witness Appolinaire and other immigrants take the oath of allegiance. For more than 200 years, new citizens have been vowing to support the Constitution; renounce fealty to foreign rulers; bear arms, perform noncombatant service or work of national importance when required by law; and to defend our laws against all enemies, foreign or domestic.

It’s more than what birth-citizens do when we recite the pledge, but this is a good day to ponder the words that have become hackneyed from repetition.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Those words take on a new meaning today. The simplicity of the language and the depth of its meaning. One nation. Under God. Indivisible. With liberty and justice for all.

We are struggling mightily now with some of these ideas. May the fervor of Appolinaire and other new citizens fill us with hope for this blessed nation and renew our faith in the motto “e pluribus unum” — out of many, one.

Small Changes

Small Changes

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Changes: can’t live with them; can’t live without them. Whether willed or imposed, they present difficulties — or perhaps I should say “opportunities for growth.”

Shifting to another spot in the Metro parking garage because there’s an 18-month rebuilding plan, for instance. Or switching my commute from drive, Metro and bus to … drive and Metro alone.

Small changes, one imposed and one chosen. Both a lot to wrap my head around before 8 a.m.

They’re just ways to stay limber, I tell myself as I walk to work. As if to underline these thoughts, I trod upon the first crinkled brown leaves of the season. Is it autumn already? No, just a couple of streetscape oaks that have fallen on hard times.

Almost Empty

Almost Empty

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It’s the dog days — and I’ll take them. Uncrowded Metro, open roadways, Congress in recess, school out for summer. It’s a lovely pause, one to savor.

Walking back to my car in the warm air,  I passed through the tunnel, dark enough by 6:30 for the lights to be illuminated. From the neighborhood that backs up to Route 66 came the sound of children playing, the voice of summer.  I smiled broadly at a stooped woman in a sari and she smiled and waved in return.

Everything seemed in harmony:  the bushes and trees, the sky and land, the people and place.

The world seemed almost empty, and that was fine with me.

13 Hours

13 Hours

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I was confused at church yesterday morning when I heard there were prayers for El Paso and Dayton. Dayton? How did I miss Dayton?

It wasn’t hard to do, given the timing and the (apparently magical) thinking that there just couldn’t be two mass shootings in less than 24 hours. But of course, there were.

Even though we’re getting hardened to random violence, I hope that having two mass shootings in 13 hours will make even the most resigned and cynical among us cry “Enough!”

The resigned and cynical may say they thought Virginia Tech (33) would be enough. Or Newtown (26) and Parkland (17), because of the children. Or Pittsburgh (11) and Sutherland Springs (26), because they occurred in houses of worship. Or Las Vegas (58), because of the sheer number.

Am I alone in worrying that we are forgetting these? There were 12 killed in my state just two months ago, and that massacre barely registers. It has already taken its place in line behind El Paso and Dayton.

And still, we dither. At this point, should we not be trying any sane and fair solution, knowing it will take many solutions … and many years.

This time, can’t we finally, truly begin?

(Photo of Las Vegas, courtesy of Wikipedia)