Sodden Sugarland

Sodden Sugarland

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I went back to the Sugarland Run Trail this morning and found a different place altogether. The trees were still labeled and the path still shady, but the storms that moved through last night had swollen the creek and matted the undergrowth.

If you peered closely you could see which direction the flood waters had been flowing; the tall grass was bent that way.

And about halfway along I ran into a front end loader pushing the remains of a downed tree to one side of the path. It was revving and scraping and doing its backup beep — and was not at all what I expected to find in this sylvan setting.

But it cleared the path, and the driver waved me through, and soon I was on the way again, as if the rain and the downing had never happened.

Glass Houses

Glass Houses

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I work in a box made of glass. Glass windows, glass doors, glass walls. I worry that one day I’ll be daydreaming and walk right into one of them. Where are bird stickers when you need them?

The glass begins in the lobby, where two sets of clear doors must be pushed or pulled to enter or exit. The lobby is so bright that I slip on my sunglasses the minute I step out of the elevator.

The glass continues upstairs where it’s easy to see who’s in or out, who’s meeting or on the phone. It’s that kind of place, which is to say transparent and modern and open and good. We’re all the same here, the glass box seems to say. We understand each other. We do not throw stones.

Except that the writer in me wants to be tucked away in a study carrel on the least used floor of the most arcane library in town. The writer in me wants shelter and coziness, dim light and nonreflective surfaces.

Out There

Out There

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A light rain this morning, almost welcome after some hot dry windy days. It’s so still that even the birds are hushed. The deck is mottled, not soaked as much as dampened.

We are past the middle of June, the solstice almost upon us, and I’m still snatching summer in dribbles and drabs. Here a 20-minute walk, there a 20-minute bounce, dining al fresco on the deck.
I’ve found a spot in the office where I can stand and look out the window almost unobserved. I go there when writing headlines or doing other creative work. My eyes stray from the page to the trees blowing green and the clouds puffy white. 

There’s the summer! Right there, just beyond my grasp. One of these days I’ll catch up with it.
Small Flags Flying

Small Flags Flying

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Last week I drove through the neighborhood in the slanting late-afternoon sun to see small plastic flags flying at the foot of every mailbox. They hadn’t been there when I left in the morning but there they were, a full week before Flag Day.

Turns out they were a gift from our representative, but that’s not what struck me about them then or now.

What I’ve been noticing is that, although they all started at the same place they have ended up all over. Some are hanging from the mailbox, others are attached to the lamppost or planted near the house. Mine is in the fern garden.

They have, in short, been individualized. How very American of us. It’s what we do best.

I thought of this idea last week, and planned to use it to celebrate our individuality. But now, flags are flying at half mast. Now I’m once again thinking about how the push for independence and autonomy that makes us strong has also made us vulnerable.

The flags are still flying, in all their unique positions. I hope they always will.

Name That Tree!

Name That Tree!

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It was already in the 90s by the time I took a walk on Saturday, and I’d forgotten to wear sunscreen. Which is why when I found a shady side path angling off invitingly from the sun-stricken W&OD, I took the path, gladly.

It’s called the Sugarland Run Trail, and it meanders along behind Carlisle Street to Elden Street in Herndon. There are frequent glimpses of Sugarland Run gurgling beside the trail.

With a name like “Sugarland,” I half expected a Candyland Board with Gumdrop Mountains and Peppermint Stick Forests.

What I found instead was almost as good, because this little woods comes complete with tree labels. In addition to the usual white oaks and red maples, there were a slippery elm, a pignut hickory, an elderberry, a hackberry and others, all neatly labeled and described.

I wish all community forests did this. If they did, I’d finally learn the names of the trees I walk among, these old friends, and soon the forests of my mind would be filled not just with “trees” but with green elms and American sycamores. What a rich place that would be!

(The path looked somewhat like this, but without the leaves and with the labels.)

Being Social

Being Social

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Yesterday’s National Press Club workshop reminds me how much I love the company of writers. Talking shop was a great way to end the week.

After my panel ended a second one convened, this one on social media. I meant to stay. The crowd was buzzing and the speakers seemed fabulous. But it was Friday afternoon, downtown D.C. was beckoning and (this will sound very fifth-grade of me) I really really wanted to be outside.

No matter. Live tweets from the panel, a twitter chat at work, and the fact that I spent an hour mining tweets from last month’s summit in Bangkok so I can write about it have all made the case.

Seems that there’s a little Twitter bird following me these days, tugging at my sleeve, and he won’t let go until I give him what he wants.

Long Bridge Park

Long Bridge Park

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I had time for only a short stroll yesterday at lunch, so I walked north along Crystal Drive, thinking that I’d go up and back a few blocks, enjoy the spectacular weather and be back at my desk in 20 minutes.

And then I found Long Bridge Park. It was like one of those dreams I would have when living in a studio apartment where I’d suddenly discover a roomy annex, a secret second bedroom accessed through the closet.

Discovering this highly walkable park on the same side of the road as my building, a place I didn’t even know existed and don’t even need to cross a street to reach — well, it was pretty exciting for a walker in the suburbs.

Arlington is technically a suburb, of course, but I work in its urban southern corner, tucked up against highways and parkways, train tracks and runways. To learn that I can walk out my door, turn right and hike a half mile or so to be in a public space, to have a dead-center view of the Washington Monument (set off yesterday against cloudless blue sky), to see planes tilting at takeoff and trains rumbling along train tracks and all of this from a paved and cindered path — well, it was almost too much for my walking soul.

Needless to say, my lunch break was a little longer than intended. I walked to the end of the path and back. There are trails yet to explore in the park and signs yet to read … but I’ve found another walking route in Crystal City.

Absorption

Absorption

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Mornings have changed since Metro began its Safetrack program. (Safetrack could also be called Slowtrack, or, more appropriately, Slowtrain.) I rush to leave the house in time to get a parking place at a lot that fills completely before 6:30 a.m.

It’s not a peaceful way to start the day, but it is what it is.

And so I begin to see this work space, overhead-lit and open as it is, as an oasis of calm. There are the windows pouring light into the room, and there is the fact that until about 8:12 the overheads remain off. There are the small, clattery sounds of other people arriving, getting settled, making coffee. And there is, most of all, the work.

When it’s interesting (as it often is here), the calm continues as the day wears on. Because there’s nothing so quieting as absorption.

Trees, Today

Trees, Today

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We have plunged through the humidity and come out on the other side. A morning cool as the underside of a pillow. Trees etched clearly against the sky.

I’m learning on the job now something I must have learned before but understand better — how much carbon trees absorb, the boon they are to our atmosphere. So when I look at them I see not just trunk and leaf, but a busy factory.

On a sultry day it’s harder to believe what they do for us, the air heavy with earthly exhale. But on a morning like this I can feel their power, their cleansing power. It’s not scientific, of course. It’s only metaphor. But it makes me a believer just the same.

Field of Weeds

Field of Weeds

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As part of the backyard beautification project, there is new grass coming up in a spot once covered by gangly forsythia bushes. This should not be a surprise since the area was seeded twice, but it’s remarkable to me.

That soil used to pushing up weeds is actually producing grass is not just miraculous but also slightly funny. The grass looks like the interloper.

Years ago a neighbor killed his entire lawn with Roundup and started over. At the time I thought this was excessive, a typical example of suburban overkill (pardon the pun).

Now I think he may have been onto something.

Whether this is due to lawn change, my change or climate change is anybody’s guess. But one thing is certain. Soon that grassy section will be full of weeds like the rest of the lawn. It’s only a matter of time.

(Copper at play on the weedy lawn.)