There is the Big Sky of the West, mesas hulking in the distance, red rock, cloudless sky, the tang of wild sage.
But what I had forgotten is that there is also the Big Sky of the beach, the vast horizon beyond the breakers, the vistas north and south, clouds looming in the late afternoon sky — seeing the weather before it arrives.
Here too is a vast panorama, scenery that takes me out of myself, the curve of the earth implied but not stated.
The sun rises and sets every day, of course, but in my regular life I don’t see it.
It’s an everyday miracle hidden behind hills and houses and daily routines.
But here at the beach I have time to watch the sun as it moves through the sky. Faraway star, morning beacon, evening entertainment — it disappears, finally, behind banks of clouds. But first a light show, late rays on water, glorious, best viewed in silence.
Walking an unfamiliar route can mean a longer jaunt than expected. Landmarks beckon: Just one more block. The temptation is to run too far down the beach or path. And then …. you have to walk home.
Yesterday I ran out and lost steam. The landmarks that flew by the first time passed more slowly on the return. On the other hand, it was on the return that I savored the sights I had sped by earlier.
I’ve always wondered about the different ways we perceive time on a journey. It often seems faster on the way home, perhaps because the sights are more familiar. But when you run one way and walk the other, the reverse is true. The return takes longer — but gives more.
In Victorian novels characters are apt to be caught in a brown study. It’s a state of deep thought, a reverie, perhaps with a slightly gloomy cast, though more abstracted than anything else.
I put the phrase “brown study” in the same category as “wool gathering” — though the latter means indulging in idle fantasies or daydreams. It’s less furrowing of the brow and more staring at the clouds.
Both conditions have a certain fuzziness about them, though; both connote a cocoon of thought, whether stimulating or soothing.
Both are lovely, fanciful ways of taking leave — even if just momentarily — of the here and now.
Every month at work I receive an inbox full of away messages courtesy of an e-newsletter my office sends out. While I typically think of these as an annoyance and delete them without a second glance, the last time I decided to read some.
I decided that there’s an art to the away message. Some are terse, no nonsense: I am away from the office until August 19. I will answer emails when I return.
Others offer a ray of hope: I will be away until August 19 with limited access to email. “Limited” is not defined, of course. Does this mean a response later in the week? the day? the hour? I’ve had all three experiences.
Many propose alternate forms of assistance: If you need immediate help, please contact … Often these substitutes are obvious ones, the colleagues anyone who’s in touch with you would already know. But listing them in the away message provides some coverage, some control.
The best away messages are the ones that already carry some of that devil-may-care vacation spirit. “I’m in Bora Bora till the cows come home. Deal with it, wage slave!”
These are the messages that can cause a contagion of sick days. They are not polite, not corporate. And they don’t end with “Thanks” or “Best” but with “Ciao” or “Later.”
The away message of my dreams.
I’m writing this post standing up. More and more often it’s the way I like to be, to write, to edit. A tall desk, a place to lean, the words flowing out (am I just imagining this?) a tad more freely.
There’s a reason for this, probably age related, though I’d just as soon not think about that. Sciatica, a pain that starts in the back, rolls down the legs, makes sitting uncomfortable.
Though pushed to stand by necessity, I find it has other charms, keeps me a little more alert, a little more aware of the world around me. It’s an observation-stimulant. I’m more vigilant, not quite as easy in my skin.
And of course, the vantage point can’t be beat. When I’m standing up, I can see farther down the road.
Yesterday I haunted the Air France website, checking first to see that Celia’s flight to Paris had arrived, then to see if her flight to Africa had taken off and, finally, to be sure that it had landed.
It did! She arrived in Cotonou, Benin, on Beninese Independence Day. Her big sister was waiting for her. What seemed preposterous two years ago — that I would have even one daughter in Africa — is now even more so. I have two!
Two girls on an adventure, two girls buzzing around on the backs of motorcycles (trying not to think about that part), two (girls) for the road.
Luckily, I also have a daughter who travels more conservatively, who even as a toddler would ask, “How we get home, Mama?” when we were on vacation.
We need both types: the micro and the macro. The ones on the road and the ones waiting for them back at home.
A walker knows what time of year it is, feels it in her bones, knows it because she’s out in the elements and notices the first brisk winds of fall, the tang in the air that means winter is near.
But lately this walker is confused. On my morning walk from Metro to the office I thought it might be early fall. Gray skies, drizzle, an occasional leaf pasted to the sidewalk.
No, it’s still summer. A strange summer, to be sure. But only August 1.
I glance up at the sky, pull my sweater tighter around me, and make my way quickly inside.
The clouds have pulled a big curtain between us and the sun. For once I don’t mind. It’s cool and still for this time of year. Insects muted.
A distant truck downshifts as it maneuvers over the speed hump. I hear the clatter of plastic wheels across pavement as the little boys across the street play a summer game.
In the backyard birds dart and warble. They like these kind of days, too, everyone taking it easy.
I stop for a moment, catch my breath, see the big picture in the page proofs I’m reading, glimpse the forest beyond the trees.
Wet pavement, steam rising — an urban phenomenon I’d forgotten until I started disembarking two stops early and walking a mile through the city some mornings. It’s the ritual hosing of the sidewalk to start the day.
There is some pride of place here. The rest of the city can get by with grit and grime, but not our patch of pavement. It will be clean, rinsed by the waters of dawn, sun barely glinting above the horizon.
Some custodians, the polite ones, pause briefly to let pedestrians tiptoe through the puddles. Others dare you to cross.
Though a temporary annoyance, it’s all for the best. It’s a salutation, a baptism, a way to start the day.
(Pretend you can see the sidewalks in this picture.)