“56 Up”

“56 Up”

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Yesterday’s post was a warmup. One of the best reasons to like 7×7 is the “Up” film series. It begins in 1964, a documentary about 14 seven-year-olds in Britain. “Show me a child of seven,” the announcer intones, “and I’ll show you the man.” (Yes, “man” not “person.” This was 1964, after all.) Every seven years since then, the director Michael Apted has made a film.

Forty-nine years later, all of the 14 are alive and only one chose not to participate. A man who had dropped out of the series after “28” returned this time, in part to publicize his band. The “kids” have grown up, gone to university (or not), taken jobs, married, had children and grandchildren, moved, divorced, grieved over lost parents, prospered, gone on disability, wandered and arrived.

In honor of Oscar weekend, a mini-review: This is the best
of the series (apart from the first), I think, and that may have nothing to
do with film making and everything to do with the age, 56. Maybe it’s
just a happy accident, but most of these folks have a good attitude
about living and aging, about learning from their mistakes. What
else can you do but go on, they say. And there’s not just
resignation in their voices but happy expectation. Even Neil, who is homeless and suffering from some sort of mental illness or mood disorder earlier in the series, seems to have righted himself, is on the town council of
the little village where he lives and also a deacon
in his church.

What’s the best thing in life, he was asked.
Friends, he said. Talking with them, walking with them. What this
film doesn’t tell you (but an earlier one does) is
that other people in the series came to Neil’s aid
when he was homeless. Bruce took him in, gave him a home;  others helped, too. There are so many lovely
stories-within-a-story in this series. And seeing the people age
is not depressing. Their expressions stay the same, their smiles,
too. And their attitudes improve.

I saw the film with a good friend, and as we left the theater a woman overheard us talking and joined our conversation. She was 56 too, she said, and the film affected her deeply. We talked like we’d known her forever, and then we parted. “I’m going home to change my life,” she said. 

Seven times eight. “56 Up.” It was that kind of film.

Seven Times Seven

Seven Times Seven

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It’s not nice to play favorites, but I’ll admit: I ‘ve always had a favorite multiplication table. Hands down, it’s seven.

Twos, fours, fives and tens — too easy. Three is melodic (“Three, six, nine, the goose drank wine…”) but lacking in substance. Six and eight are uninteresting. And nine has always given me trouble.

So that leaves seven. What is it about seven times seven that soothes and satisfies, that clicks? Maybe it’s the spiritual aspect, the way the number shows up in fairy tales and fables and the Bible. Seven years, seven leagues, seven sacraments.

Or maybe the symmetry, like the precise paths of a formal garden. Making order out of chaos. Seven is odd but beautiful. Prime and primal.

But all of this doesn’t explain a prejudice that developed in, what, third grade? For some reason I took to sevens and they took to me. And that’s the way it is.

I began this post to write about the movie “56 Up,” but I’ll save that for another day.

Green Plants Shining

Green Plants Shining

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To read the newspapers you might think the main topic here in our nation’s capital is the sequester, but for me it’s the light.

The morning light that arrives ever earlier, putting me to shame (I should have gotten going earlier, I should be arriving at work in total darkness).

The morning light that sets the birds to trilling a special greeting at the Vienna Station. Their song sounds like something I remember from long ago.

The morning light that will later spill through my office window (much in need of cleaning), set the green plants to shining, and when the angle is right, make rainbows on the wall.

Maps of Clouds

Maps of Clouds

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Yesterday’s walk began in drizzle, which I cursed silently. Not that I mind it, but my hair does. But I walked anyway, and as I did, the sky began to clear and the clouds piled up in the west and made maps of themselves, great illuminated maps. There was Cuba, or maybe some Micronesian island, and beyond it, some southern coast. And the yellow-pink light kept growing, even though the light rain kept falling. By then I had given up on my hair and just marveled that the sky could be so bright and still have rain in it.

It wasn’t until I reached the far end of our neighborhood that the rain finally stopped, and by then the clouds were on fire, so I extended my stroll along the busy road, which offers prime sunset viewing — all the while keeping those clouds, those pink and yellow clouds, in my sight.

As the cars drove past I thought how few of those drivers (often I’m one of them) could look — or see — the beauty raging around them. The poverties we are given, how they enrich us; and the riches, how they impoverish. This is certainly not a new thought, but an intensely felt one there in the just-past-rainy gloaming of an otherwise dreary day.

Commuting in the Dark

Commuting in the Dark

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The Washington Metropolitan Transportation Authority, which runs the Metro, is well known for single-tracking, off-loading and other commuting horrors. It’s often not given credit for the tens of thousands of folks that it safely transports to and fro every day.

True, it is difficult to understand why it takes two years to repair an escalator, but I imagine there are the usual bureaucratic hurdles to surmount. All this is to say that I hesitate to complain about an “improvement” — but now I’m going to do exactly that.

One thing WMTA does right, at least in my opinion, is it keeps the lights low. When your fleet is aging and your platforms have seen better days, that’s a wise move. But if my stop is any indication, that’s ending. Bright lights now illuminate the top tier of the station. That which was hidden is now revealed. And it’s not a pretty sight.

All those dim platforms and stairways, which gave commuting the blurriness that made it bearable, may be going away. Sunglasses on Metro? That may be next.

Nothing Personal

Nothing Personal

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This happens quite often, especially as the days lengthen and the air warms.

I’ll walk outside first thing in the morning (on days when I don’t leave before dawn), and I’m greeted with a great flapping and scampering. It’s the robins and jays flying away as the door squeaks open, and the squirrels scampering up the tree as I head past them to the mailbox.

But the overall effect is one of breaking up a party. It’s like entering the room of a teenager or joining a conversation that suddenly stops as you come near. The birds and small mammals have obviously been up to something they don’t want me to share. And that’s okay. I understand, really I do!

All of this is to say that wild things have their own world, their own hearts and habits. It’s comforting to know that I don’t belong; it’s comforting to know it’s nothing personal.

The Trips of Others

The Trips of Others

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Word comes this morning of a brother’s travel plans. Electronic word.

This is the way the world works now. You forward itineraries, e-mail arrival and departure times. It’s easy to do and helps with logistics.

Sometimes when planning my own trips, I become anxious, apprehensive. Can I make that connection? Should I stay in that hotel? Can I afford this trip? (The answers, if I’m being truthful with myself, are no, no and no.)

There are none of these problems with the trips of others. One can savor a place from afar. This is the day they land in Dublin and from there they’ll drive to the Wicklow hills. Will it be raining? Will it be cold? It doesn’t matter!

It’s a good time to be an armchair traveler.

(This photo is from real, not virtual, travel.)

Empty Shelves

Empty Shelves

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I walked into our local bookstore a few days ago to find an empty space where most of the books used to be. Shelving stacked in corners. A few sections still intact, history, business, religion. But fiction? Gone. Children’s books? Decimated.

The bookstore in Union Station, my go-to place from the office, that one is closing, too.

It’s enough to make a print person crazy! I know the codex is doomed. I know that three-year-olds have kindles.  I know that libraries have become “media centers.”

But can’t we take this a little more slowly? Aren’t these transformations supposed to take generations?

I guess even change is changing.

A Day for Love

A Day for Love

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Woke up this morning thinking about love, all types of love, romantic and filial and maternal. Of the love of friends and the respect of colleagues. Of the love we’re supposed to show the stranger but (at least I) so often do not.

I thought about how hard it can be to love, and how easy.

And then I thought about having a day that celebrates love. Without expectation of belief or  patriotism. Surely unique among the holidays.

Just a day for love — and the expression of it.

Forty Days

Forty Days

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Pretend that you’re on a space station, I read this morning in the little book of Lenten devotionals that I picked up, for a dollar, at church. There your existence would be limited — no walks around the neighborhood or spur-of-the-moment drives downtown; and the food, nothing to write home about.

But your vision, your perspective, would be broad. The earth from space, the blue marble.

A funny image, but the more I’ve pondered it the more it has grown on me. Limiting some parts of life so that others might shine through.

Especially the quiet, contemplative parts, those that thrive without distractions. Time alone to think, to put things in perspective.

Forty days of that? Bring it on!