Gifts from Africa

Gifts from Africa

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The human heart is a funny thing, what it withstands, what it does not. I’ve long since accustomed myself to Suzanne’s absence. She’s been in Africa well over a year now. She’s busy, happy, completely at home.

But last night, the worlds collided. Suzanne’s friend Katie came to visit “bearing gifts” from her recent trip to see Suzanne in Benin. Things Suzanne had bought and wanted us to have:

There was a leather wallet, a small wall hanging of a woman carrying a jug on her head and a set of hand-cast ladles made of an indeterminate metal (maybe aluminum?).

For some reason now, I can hardly look at these gifts without a tissue nearby. That Suzanne chose them with her own hands, arranged for their passage here — well, it just got to me.

It’s always that way, isn’t it? The small, thoughtful detail; a glimpse of the eternal within the everyday.


(Photo: Katie Esselburn)

World Wide-Webbed

World Wide-Webbed

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We’ve had a bumper crop of spiderwebs this year, perhaps brought on by the cooler, damper summer — or perhaps not. Perhaps just brought on by an especially industrious crop of spiders.

Whatever the explanation, the webs have been out in full force. They catch you in the woods, cling to your hair, your clothes, your shoes. Not, of course, to your dog. He’s too short to be webbed.

They drive you to carry a stick and walk along the paths swinging it madly from side to side; in other words, webs make you look foolish.

Webs appear overnight, strung across the trampoline or the pergola, nature’s bunting. True, they are not good for hikers or unsuspecting insects. But stand aside, glimpse one with the sun behind it, thin threads gleaming, and it’s clear that webs are good for the soul.

(Photo: Tom Capehart)

Equinox, Equator

Equinox, Equator

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So we come to the days of perfectly parceled light. Equal measures of darkness and day. What every young child longs for: the cookie cut into two halves that are absolutely the same. Not one chocolate chip more or less.

Perfect equality; perfectly equal.

I think these days of Suzanne, living nine degrees north of the equator in a land where it’s always  equinox. Mornings at 7, evenings, too. Seasons of rain and sun rather than heat and cold. Still the northern hemisphere, but barely.

Summer-lover that I am, northern hemisphere-dweller that I am, it’s hard to imagine warm weather without long days. But that’s what she has. Heat and wood smoke, too, I bet — another one of those anomalies.

Here at 38 degrees latitude, we are finally balanced. But only because it’s September 25. The scale is already tipping. Darkness is winning out. Time to dream of a land where it never does.

(Photo: Katie Esselburn)

Running and Walking

Running and Walking

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I can’t really explain it, did not set out to do it, but lately I’ve been running more than I’ve been walking.  My knees seem up to the task, and there is the mood-elevating aspect of the endeavor, the “runner’s high,” which encourages the habit.

I can’t help but compare the two, though. Running is about the pace, the accomplishment. At least at this point of my re-entry into the activity, I find myself thinking more “hey, I’m running!” than anything else.

Walking, on the other hand, frees the mind for wandering. The pace is natural, conducive to wool-gathering along the way.

All of which is to say: the ideal day would include time to run and walk. Ah, if only I didn’t have to earn a living!

The Promise of Leisure

The Promise of Leisure

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Bad weather was moving in, so I considered taking in the hammock. I scarcely used it this summer, since I had precious little down time. And the fact that we had a bumper crop of mosquitoes in the backyard didn’t help.

Still, there were a few sultry afternoons I lazed away an hour or two, staring up at the leaves or swaying to music or reading and dozing.

Besides, the hammock is not just for the body, it’s for the mind.  Simply to see it slung there so invitingly makes my shoulders drop a notch or two.

I finally decided that the hammock stands for the promise of leisure more than leisure itself.

And who wants to put that away for the summer?

Wedding Day

Wedding Day

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There’s something in the air. Last weekend I learned of two engagements. Today I know of two weddings. One, a colleague’s, is downtown. The other is across the street. Literally. 
All week long the dust has been flying. The gardeners delivered mulch, the tent people delivered a tent (one something like this), and other rental outfits dropped off chairs and tables and a porta-potty (which I’ve heard through the grapevine is a deluxe model).
It’s the wedding of our neighbor’s father — not an event one usually associates with a parent, but delightful when it happens. 
We neighbors have the smallest of supporting roles: We will put up with the parking and the noise. We will medicate our dogs if necessary. And we will send silent cheers their way. 
I may not feel this way tomorrow morning, but right now I can say: It’s good to have a wedding in the ‘hood.
(Photo: Fairytaletentsandevents.com)
Making it Official

Making it Official

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This summer, more than any other I can remember, the yard was filled with birds. Lured by new feeders and treats they filled the mornings with song and the afternoons with excited chatter.

Now the birds are going away. Not all of them, of course. But the hummingbirds are scarce to nonexistent and the goldfinches appear in singles rather than flocks. The woodpeckers that hopped each deck pilaster to reach the peanut butter block — I haven’t seen them in weeks.

I suppose some of these creatures — most of them — are winging their way south. The last few evenings I’ve spotted Vs of blackbirds tracking southeast in the cloudless sky.

No secret what it all means. I can read a calendar, can feel the chill in the morning air. But when the birds start to vanish that makes it all terribly official.

Summer is almost over. Fall is almost here.

Beating the Clock

Beating the Clock

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I don’t know when cross-walks that flash “Walk” or “Don’t Walk” turned into cross-walks that give pedestrians a countdown of the seconds they have left for crossing, but I was thinking yesterday how this development has changed my walking style.

Before, I would find my cadence and stride confidently from block to block. My feet were on auto-pilot while my mind was free to wander. I stopped and started when needed.

Now if I spot a flashing “20” halfway down the block, I play beat the clock. The natural gait is gone. Instead, I race to the corner and dash across the street.The flow of thoughts is replaced by strategy. If I keep up the pace another block I can beat that light, too.

Do I get where I’m going any faster?

I doubt it.

Frying Pan Park

Frying Pan Park

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As soon as I pulled into the gravel parking lot, I knew it was a mistake. I hadn’t been to this farm park since the girls were young. I was missing them enough as it was. What was I thinking of?

Some sort of therapy, I suppose, the kind where anxious folks expose themselves to ever-increasing doses of what they fear. So I hopped out of the car and started my “treatment.”

There was the big barn where we’d admire the baby pigs and the field where we’d watch the young goats rut and run. There was the chicken coop, the old tractor, the field where the pardoned Thanksgiving turkeys (given to several American presidents, who chose not to slaughter them) now run free.

Mostly there were the shadows of my three daughters. One running ahead, a second clambering on a fence and the third holding her nose because “this place really stinks, Mom.” For a moment the memories overcame me and I had to stop and compose myself.

As I stared at the light on the early fall fields, a young father raced ahead of me, his two children pulling on his arms. He looked harried and hassled — and seeing him helped me remember the high drama of those days, the endlessness of them. My trips to this park were often out of desperation.

But I also recalled the way it felt to pull in the driveway after one of our outings, secure in our togetherness, feeling, as I rushed to start dinner, that everything was exactly as it should be.

“Fists to Knives to Guns”

“Fists to Knives to Guns”

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I looked it up first thing this morning. The Navy Yard is a little over two miles from my office. I could walk there in 40 minutes. That’s how close it came this time.

But despite how close it came, despite how horrific it was — the worst loss of life in a single violent incident here since 9/11/2001 — what’s most notable about this tragedy is how routine it has become.

At least there were no children killed this time, I caught myself thinking. Yet undoubtedly children were affected. Children and other innocent people. The 12 victims all had loved ones — husbands and wives, kids and parents, brothers and sisters, friends and colleagues — and their lives will never be the same.

There has always been anger and hatred in the world. But anger plus gunfire is a potent combination. As Janet Orlowski of Washington Hospital Center said as she updated reporters on the condition of the wounded: “I grew up at a time when people were mad at each other, they put up their fists and they hit each other. And for some reason people have gone from fists to knives to guns.”

(Photo: Wikipedia)