Long Walk in the Big City

Long Walk in the Big City

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Yesterday I took a long walk in the big city. I started in the theater district, made my way south and west to pick up the High Line, which is now available at 34th Street!  From there (where I snapped this picture and then very quickly ran out of charge), I strolled to Gansevoort Street, then down Jane to the West Side Highway and over to the long, skinny park that runs along the Hudson.

The sun was flirting with us, in and out from the clouds. At times it seemed as if it would pour. But it didn’t (until today), so I had five blissful hours of ambling.

It’s really the whole package that does it to me here in the city. It’s the energy of the people and the place. It’s all the hundreds of details — from the grumpy Penn Station employee yelling at a woman who could hardly lug her suitcase (“Why did you pack so much?”) to the crazy wedding parade I found myself swept up in at the end of the day (complete with a kazoo band).

It’s good to be here. Life enhancing, as a matter of fact.

All Aboard

All Aboard

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Heading to New York aboard the Acela Express, three  hours to the Big Apple. It’s work that takes me there this time, but I’ve built in a few hours to walk.

It will be the perfect way to calm down after a frenetic morning of packing, texting — and learning about last night’s Chelsea bombing. I can already imagine the relief of moving quickly down an avenue, the creative chaos of Manhattan setting the pace.

For now, there is the slightly bumpy ride of a fast-moving train, the only sounds those of keys clicking and newspapers turning. (I’m in the quiet car.)

It’s a rocking motion, and would, if I gave it half a chance, lull me to sleep.

Rose Hips

Rose Hips

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Overnight, it seems that fall has moved in. A clammy, chillier air,  and the back lawn is scattered with leaves. The mums don’t look so out of place now, and for some reason the climbing rose has produced a bumper crop of rose hips.

What a strange and lovely name, rose hips. I look up the etymology, learn it is a 16th-century alteration of the Middle English “hepe” and the Old English “heope,” meaning seed pod.

Rose hips are invested with all sorts of nutritional properties, have far more Vitamin C than oranges, for instance.

If I had worlds of time, I’d collect the rose fruits and make tea or jelly. The garden has produced nothing else much that’s edible, apart for oregano, mint and thyme.

Instead, I’ll snap a photo and write a post. It’s another way to preserve the goodness of the rose.

On Foot

On Foot

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Metro’s massive rehab project has me once again scrambling for a way to work, switching up my commute. Today a predawn bus and a walk to the office from Army Navy Drive.

Crystal City is not what I would call a walker’s paradise. It’s honeycombed with expressways and hotel driveways. But hey, it has sidewalks and, more to the point, it’s my work ‘hood. So I’m getting to know it, block by block.

This morning a welcome breeze, a dearth of traffic (it was early) and 70-degree temps made the stroll delightful. I passed dog walkers, joggers and a few people who looked like they had yet to go to bed from the night before.

In other words, a motley crew — and fun to observe. Just further confirmation that it’s the right way to start a day, on foot.

Found Time

Found Time

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Sometimes when I wake early I think it’s because there is something I need more than sleep. That something would be time.

I’ve never been a prima donna kind of writer. I fold personal writing into my day: dashing off a post before dawn, scribbling thoughts in my journal on Metro. I have no backyard cabin or artist’s garret (I wish). The living room is my “office,” and my writing time is whenever I can find it.

Still, there’s never enough time. So every week or two I don’t fight the early waking as much as I might. I come downstairs and grab the two hours or 90 minutes or whatever scrap of time insomnia has given me — and use it to read and write.

I might start the day a little tired, but I’ve filled a greater need. I’ve lost sleep — but I’ve found myself.

Back to the Farm

Back to the Farm

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A late day walk yesterday gave me time to leave the neighborhood. I turned right on Folkestone and headed to Franklin Farm. They’ve mown the tall meadow grass there now, and the field was looking brown and parched. But the sky was blue, the clouds were puffy and the air was exquisite. 

I strolled past the pond and fountain, its spray giving the area a spritz of humidity. Shades of things to come. Our weather will be more summery today and tomorrow.
I saw the little dock where fathers take their young sons to fish, and the shallow pools where turtles sun themselves on the shore.
The last time I took this walk was weeks before the wedding. Busyness has kept me close to home lately. So it was with new eyes, calmer eyes, that I viewed the familiar sites. The trees and fences and backyards I know so well. All of it there for the dog-walkers, the kids on bikes, the moms in spandex — and me.
September’s Shoulder Season

September’s Shoulder Season

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There’s dried brush along the road now, and sometimes a single red or yellow leaf floats slowly down to lodge on the dry brown lawns.

I wouldn’t mind a few more months of 90-degree temps — but I’m in the minority. For many, for most, summer has outstayed its welcome. People long for a little nip in the air, for crisp autumn leaves and brisk autumn breezes.

What we have now is the delicious in-between. Not quite summer, not quite fall. I remember once reading a little essay about this time of year in the New York Times. I’ve since looked for that piece but been unable to find it.

But what it said, with far more grace than I can muster this morning, is that these are charmed weeks: all the energy of a new year within the frame of September’s mellow beauty and equanimity. A shoulder season, a fleeting patch of loveliness and ease.

Rear View Mirror

Rear View Mirror

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As the wedding passes into memory, keepsake images flit through my brain. One I keep coming back to is the rear-view-mirror glimpse of the newlyweds as I pulled away from their house last Monday.

I had driven them home after the big festivities, and they were making sure I got safely on my way. I glimpsed at the mirror to see them put their arms around each other and stroll back to the house. It was the perfect coda to a celebration of love and family, and just one of the moments I treasure.

Funny thing, making memories. When you’re young the memories seem unimportant. It’s the experiences that matter. But as you grow (ahem!) older, you realize that experiences are fleeting — and it’s memories that endure. They are the rich rear view mirror of life, a procession of images to relive and cherish.

A Gift

A Gift

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Yesterday’s walk from the Rayburn Building to L’Enfant Metro was bright and breezy. It was after 11, and the lunch trucks were already attracting a crowd. I strolled passed the west lawn of the Capitol, down Independence, past the Bartholdi Fountain, under renovation (wasn’t it just under renovation a couple of years ago?), along the backside of the Botanical Gardens, their glass windows and dome vaguely Victorian in look and appeal. I passed the American Indian Museum, its sinuous curves and yellow stone a standout in a town of angular white buildings.

It was warm but the air was moving, and it blew the hair off my face. I doffed my jacket and swung it along.

This was no recreational amble. It was a functional walk, a path from A to B, from a work function to the office. But it felt liberating to be out in the late morning bustle. A gift.

It was D.C., it was still summer, it was a good walk.

Without a Net

Without a Net

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The tent is down, and the trampoline is back in its regular spot.  But the net is not yet up around it. Which means that last night’s bounce was not only in the gloaming but also in the open.

I know the net that surrounds the trampoline is window-dressing at best. It won’t stop a hard roll or an errant flip.

But I’m the tamest of trampers. I bounce up and down, up and down. I might do a little air conducting if Brahms or Mozart has me by the collar, but otherwise I’m a cautious bouncer.

Still, I felt a bit daring last night as I jumped for 20 minutes without a net. Not quite ready for the circus yet, but liberated just the same.

(Illustration: Wikipedia)