Walkers Awake

Walkers Awake

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Yesterday I walked to Metro in an almost rain that required almost an umbrella — but you could get away without one. It was  refreshing.

A misty gloaming, the end of a deluge, meant that those who were fed up with the pelting had given up on any barrier between them and the sky.

And then you had people like me, people cooped up in an office all day and glad for the feel of the elements, any elements.

So I walked quickly, thinking I could dodge the occasional fat drop or two. In my ears the Bach cantata “Sleepers Awake.” Trumpet soaring; organ chords giving me a rhythm for footfall, a walking bass line. I let the contrapuntal melody move me forward.

It took three and a half plays of “Sleepers Awake” to reach Metro Center. I was a little damp but no worse for the wear.

Stark Days

Stark Days

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Sunday morning, out early in a new day, I felt the difference immediately. The road was lighter, the woods yawning open to the left and right. 

It wasn’t a cheerful lightness. It was a vacancy. Something was missing.

It took me a minute to realize what had happened, that the hard rains of Saturday had flushed most of the leaves from the trees, that we had, overnight, slipped from autumn into winter. That the stark days had begun.

Running up the Rocky Steps

Running up the Rocky Steps

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I saved a Philadelphia memory to start the week. The destination of my Friday afternoon walk was the Philadelphia Art Museum steps. I wanted to see the Rocky statue and the view of downtown from that perch. I wanted to run up the steps.

My route wound in from the river, so I started at the top of the plaza with the tourists, those who’d already run the stairs and were pumping their arms above their heads with the Benjamin Franklin Parkway and City Hall spread out behind them.

I knew that there was a Rocky Balboa statue at the foot of the steps so I made my way to it and snapped a few shots. As I turned to do the stair climb myself, a little reluctantly — I was tired! — I saw a gaggle of high-schoolers, at least 30 or more, spring from a bus. They were moving so fast  they were a blur. But there was no mistaking it: They were racing — not running but racing — up the 72 stone steps. Behind them three or four adults — teachers, I guess — were in fast pursuit. There was no way they could catch up, but they were trying.

It was funny, it was crazy, it was one of those “life force” moments so full of energy and joy that I knew I would remember it forever. After I saw it, I had no choice but to run up the steps myself. At the top I felt breathless and happy and ready to go home.

Schuylkill River Walk

Schuylkill River Walk

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The meeting ended a few hours before the Northeast Regional left 30th Street Station so I had enough time to stroll from my West Philly hotel, down Chestnut to 34th, then Spruce, then across the Schuylkill to the walk that runs beside it.

It was Friday afternoon, sun had broken through the clouds, and the temperature was about 70. I joined the baby-stroller-joggers, cyclists, skateboarders and others heading north along the river.

I almost went to the Barnes Museum — one of the Philadelphia’s new premier attractions — but I like to think that in walking we get a glimpse of the true city, the one that exists beneath the attractions.

There were glimpses of skyline with tall grasses in the foreground, there was the sun striking the water; there were all the people and conversations. There was, above all, the joy of moving through space, a space new to me, thrilling in its unknowns.

Up the Northeast Corridor

Up the Northeast Corridor

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Yesterday I climbed aboard the Northeast Regional to travel up to a meeting in Philadelphia. On the way out of town, I spotted a familiar landmark of northeast D.C., the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. I used to work next door to the basilica, so I always look for it when I can. Its rotunda and its Marian blue always bring a pang of nostalgia.

I planned to review notes and read on the train. Instead I almost instantly fell asleep. Train travel does that to me, the rocking motion, the blurred scenery, the clickety-clack.

Let’s make a deal, said my seat mate. Whoever is awake will let the other know we’re in Philadelphia. (He had told me when he sat down that he was getting off there, too.) But as it turned out, we were both awake, and he kindly pointed the way to Market Street as we left the station.

The sun was low in the sky when I started walking to the hotel, but the streets were full of students, and I was on my own in a big city.

Walking Key Bridge

Walking Key Bridge

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On Friday I had reason to visit Georgetown’s main campus — or, rather, an office building 20 minutes away from it. Though I work at Georgetown’s law school, I seldom visit the rest of the campus, what’s fondly called the Hilltop.

It’s a beautiful spot, perched above the Potomac and set apart from the rest of the city. But it’s not easy to reach by Metro.  My favorite way to go, though most would say the most arduous, is to get off in Virgina at the Roslyn Station, wend my way through downtown Arlington and then stroll across the Key Bridge.

Friday’s weather was brisk. I wore a jacket and scarf. I considered gloves. But none of this mattered once I started across the span. There are the spires of Healy Hall ahead, and beside the campus the narrow, treed lanes of a much older city. Below is the Potomac, and, if you’re lucky, a crew team skimming across it. The bridge is clogged with trucks and cars and bikes. All is movement and brightness and wind.

And once in the District, there is an impossibly steep hill to climb. They don’t call it the Hilltop for nothing. Motion, sunshine, new vistas — my heart was lighter than it had been in days. And all because I walked Key Bridge.

New Hour, New World

New Hour, New World

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Yesterday I left the office, walked out the door and saw a sky lit from within, clouds shimmering with light and a flock of birds swooping in and out of sight.

It was a different hour, a different light, made possible by the time change. And while it means I leave and return home in darkness, it also means that my walk to Metro takes me by flaming trees, slanting sun and illuminated office windows that reveal what’s inside. Plants and posters, an American flag.

It was a new hour — and because of that — a new world.

Lamplit Afternoon

Lamplit Afternoon

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This weekend I bought a lampshade. It’s for the big standing lamp in the living room, an ancient item rejiggered. “Bring your old shade with you,” said the sign in the store, as I made my way over to what seemed an impossibly large array of shades.

Of course I didn’t do this. I had measurements, but I’d forgotten how many styles of lampshades there are: the empire, hexagon, bell, drum or pagoda. I spent close to a half an hour in that shop, lifting shades from their spot on the shelf, measuring the top diameter and the bottom diameter, the height from base to crown.

The one I finally chose lacks the old-world lines of its predecessor, but it fits and its lining is secure — unlike the old shade with its renegade lining.  And when I turned on the lamp yesterday — not at night but in the afternoon, thanks to our return to standard time — I was glad to be entering this season of early darkness with well-filtered illumination.

Finding Francis

Finding Francis

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It’s not as if I had lost him, or didn’t know about him at all. But there was a bit of the miraculous in what happened yesterday.

I was facing a difficult situation at work, a delicate, pretending-like-everything-is-okay-but-it’s-really-not situation. And that, on top of the grief and worry, was making for some desperate hours. I needed quick relief, an instant infusion of calmness and strength. So for some reason — I’m not sure why — I googled a 16th-century saint, Francis de Sales.

This is not St. Francis of the Franciscans, namesake of Pope Francis. This is the other Francis. I know about him because my parish priests are of his order, the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales, and his writings are sometimes reprinted in the bulletin.

Still, googling saints is not something I do in times of trouble. I’m more likely to pace or bite my nails. Nevertheless, the impulse was so strong that it was like reaching for Motrin when I feel a headache coming on. There was the near certain promise of relief. I knew this was what I was supposed to do.

So I found this: “Do not lose your inner peace for anything whatsoever, even if your whole world seems upset.” And this: “Have patience with all things but chiefly have patience with yourself.” And this: “The same everlasting Father who cares for you today will care for you tomorrow and every day. Either he will shield you from suffering or give you unfailing peace to bear it. Be at peace then and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginings.”

Yesterday I found Francis when I needed him the most.

Eye of Storm?

Eye of Storm?

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Sometimes life decides to throw a lot of things at you at once. Work woes on top of grieving on top of other stuff.

I’m using the word “decides” lightly, of course, and with some irony. Life hasn’t “decided” anything. Life is just happening. So how do  I handle the concerns, the worries, the to-dos? How do I  control the uncontrollable?

What I’m hoping for is the eye of the storm. I’ve been blown around and buffeted for weeks now, so it has to be here somewhere. I don’t even expect the storm to be over. I just want a break from it.

Maybe if I think small like this, not ask for too much, the way will be clearer, the passing smooth. All I’m asking for is a patch of sunlight in the clouds, the calm air to catch my breath.