Take a Hike

Take a Hike

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I’ve developed a cautious approach to reading the newspaper these days. I want to be informed, but refuse to let the news dictate my day. I’ll scan the headlines, dip into stories that interest me, perhaps read a few op-eds, then call it a day.

This morning I lingered over a story that fits perfectly into the philosophy of A Walker in the Suburbs. A counselor at a Maine high school, transformed by her own hike on the Appalachian Trail, decided to offer a hike instead of detention to students caught skipping class or talking back to their teachers.

While students grumbled and some parents worried that this wasn’t punishment enough, the counselor persisted. A year later, students report that the hikes have enlarged their perspectives. They feel soothed and encouraged by the three-mile expeditions. Some feel invested in school for the first time. Others hike even when they’re not in detention.

Solvitur ambulando is the unofficial motto of this blog. “It is solved by walking.” It is also solved by being outside, watching the play of light on trees, joining the parade of seasons, trudging the extra mile.

I’m always heartened to find further proof of these truths.

Volunteer Forest

Volunteer Forest

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During a celebratory bounce on the trampoline yesterday I noticed (not for the first time) that I didn’t plant most of the trees in which it’s nestled. Most of them are volunteers. They landed in their spots from errant seeds and saplings, and our careful mowing preserved them in their infancy.

In fact, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that most of the trees in the back yard are scrappy survivors — the tulip poplar, weeping cherry and sassafras tree. They remind me that, as I mentioned a few days ago, you never know.

One of the most beautiful volunteers is the Japanese maple. Early next month its leaves will turn scarlet, lighting up the leafless yard.

Are “accidental trees” hardier than their planted cousins? Seems to me they are. Perhaps they hold lessons for us all.

Look Up

Look Up

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I had only enough time to do the two-mile loop in my neighborhood, the most pedestrian of pedestrian experiences. It was mid-afternoon, and warm. My feet were dragging. And then I thought to look up.

The sky was shockingly blue, so much bluer than the sky you see in this photo, and the foliage so much greener. The orange tree, which I notice turns earlier than the others every year, added contrast.

I caught my breath at the loveliness of it all. What palettes lie hidden in even the most familiar landscape? I could have been staring at the luminous hues of an Impressionist garden or the weathered face of a Dutch master.

It’s not like I don’t look up when I walk. But this time, it was a revelation. It was as if I hadn’t seen the sky before or the trees framing it.

It was just an ordinary walk, but I looked up, and that made all the difference.

La Bella Luna

La Bella Luna

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Whenever I see a big moon I think of the movie “Moonstruck,” one of my favorites. “La bella luna,” the characters say, when an impossibly large moon beams through their windows in Brooklyn.

Last night an impossibly large moon beamed through my windows in Virginia. It shone in a near-cloudless sky. It stole the show.

I thought of other moon viewings, of how this heavenly body can comfort and caress us.

The good folks at the Capital Weather Gang explained that this year’s Harvest Moon appears large — is in fact a super moon — because it is both full and as close to the earth as it can be. It is at its perigee, a scientific term that contains an exclamation.

“Gee!” is right. It was quite a moon. And it will be almost full for the next two nights.

Art and Artifice

Art and Artifice

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A year ago I moved this blog to a new site. It seemed a big deal at the time, and still is in a way. The old site was like a well-loved but outgrown home. It had small rooms and creaky corners, but I knew its quirks.

Now A Walker in the Suburbs lives in a new place that I’m only beginning to understand. SEO? At least I know the letters stand for Search Engine Optimization. Meta description? I try to write one every day. Social support? Rarely, I admit.

It’s the eternal struggle between inspiration and presentation, between art and artifice. For me, this blog is still about the words on the page, not how those words move through the ether. I began the blog with that purpose — and I honor it still.

(The village of Kaysersberg, France provides a “frame” through which you can photograph it. More art and artifice.)

Great Chain of Knowing

Great Chain of Knowing

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In the Middle Ages, the Great Chain of Being explained the universe and one’s place in the world. This highly structured, hierarchical system influenced Western thought for centuries. Without wading too deep into the philosophical weeds, what I feel part of now is the Great Chain of Knowing.

Several times this week I’ve asked friends for a name, a reference, for help — and my friends have asked me for the same.

I’ve checked in with a couple I haven’t talked to in years, caught up with a former neighbor, tracked down a professional reference. All of us are part of a Great Chain of Knowing. We’ve been on this earth long enough to have information and contacts to share.

I like to imagine us attached by strong filaments of caring, a bit like the silken strings of a cobweb. Only instead of trapping insects, we’re using these sturdy fibers to support each other. The Great Chain of Knowing. I’ve come to rely on it.

Walking for Tomatoes

Walking for Tomatoes

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Some days, I walk to stretch my legs, to get my muscles moving. Other days, it’s mental exercise I crave. The ideas flow best when the body moves through space.

But yesterday, I walked for none of these reasons. Yesterday, I walked for tomatoes.

I took the long way around, ambled one half of a circular trail, crossed and recrossed the Glade, went up a hill and down some stairs. And, close to the end of my route, I stopped in at a farmer’s market. The tomatoes were ripe and I bought three.

What fun to stroll back to the car with my precious cargo. Not just my phone and keys (the essentials), but also with those three tomatoes.

A walk doesn’t need a reason — but if it does, tomatoes are a good one.

Darkness at Noon

Darkness at Noon

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The door was round and red, ornate and stylized, but it did not invite entry. In fact, it did just the opposite. I hesitated at first to step inside, because beyond the door all was darkness. Darkness on a warm, bright, late-summer noon.

Who knew bamboo trees could grow so close together? Who knew they could shut out the day? Had a path not been plotted between the plants, the forest would have been impenetrable.

But there was a trail, and as I made my way along it, I touched the smooth trunks, marveled at the tangle of leaves that hid the sky.

There was no way to get lost in the grove. I needed no trail of pebbles or breadcrumbs. Before long I was back in the brightness. Will all of us be so lucky? I hope so.

(This post titled with apologies to Arthur Koestler, whose novel Darkness at Noon depicts an even grimmer era.)

Community of the Air

Community of the Air

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I’m a longtime supporter of public radio. Whether I’m tuned to the Sunday jazz show or the classical station during the week, there’s radio music blaring here most of the time. The parakeets love it, and I do, too.

Of course, there are those inevitable periods throughout the year when a fund drive takes place. In the past, I’d turn it off. I’m a member, so why listen to hours of cajoling, of hearing how for less than the price of a cup of coffee a day you can support your favorite station.

This year, though, things are different. This year, I’m listening to as much of the fund drive as I can. I don’t mind the pleading, the shilling of a compilation CD, or the announcement of a new tee shirt lego. This year it’s “Defunded but not Bach’ing Down.”

All the talk makes me feel part of a community, a community of the air, to be sure, but a community just the same.

With the abolishment of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting and the removal of already earmarked federal funds, I feel more protective of public radio, and more grateful for it. I’ll listen to as much of the fund drive as I can stand, though I won’t be listening much longer. It ends in less than an hour. Will the station make its goal? I hope so. It matters more than ever that they do.

(Photo: Courtesy WETA Classical, which did, by the way, meet its goal.)

Lake Newport

Lake Newport

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I arrived as a light rain began to fall, jacket looped around my waist. It would be there to ward off the bigger drops, to keep serious downpours at bay.

I started on the straightaway, across the top of the dam, moved quickly past the playground and ball fields, crossed the street and strolled by the lakeside homes, then into the woods.

The path doesn’t go directly around the lake, but it’s variable and interesting with exposed and shady stretches, those now covered with crispy brown leaves.

The longer I walked, the dryer it became. I reached the end of the circular trail, which was also the beginning. It seemed dry enough to do it again. Which I did. Then one more time for good measure.

Three loops, three miles, and a jacket I never needed.

(Lake Newport on a sunny day)