In Praise of Paths

In Praise of Paths

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“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,” wrote Lord Byron in “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.” Torbjørn Ekelund might disagree. He and his pal decided to hike off-trail for three days through a wilderness area in Norway. They did not use paths, phones or maps. They were on their own in the dense, hilly Nordmarka Forest.

Though they had sussed out their route ahead of time, it was from a distance. As soon as they entered the woods, they lost the overview.

“The path is order in chaos,” Ekelund writes in his book In Praise of Paths. The title of this book provides some clue to the outcome of his experiment. The hikers stopped every ten minutes, constantly retracing their steps. They sought out high points where they could get their bearings, with little success.

Finally, at wit’s end, they climbed to the top of a rise and saw the sun sinking in the west. The sun had remained stubbornly out of sight during their wanderings. Its appearance at that moment gave them the reckoning they needed, and they were able to reach their destination.

Ekelund and his friend had walked four times as far as they needed to. “We had danced our way through the forest. One step forward, four to the left. One step forward, four to the right.”

I’ve never been much of a bushwhacker, and Ekelund’s book reminds me why.

The Weight of Air

The Weight of Air

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The heat wave has ended … or has it? The “real feel” temperature is 100 degrees today, though we will barely reach 90. It’s those old dew points, working their magic. Today’s is 70; it’s a number you can feel.

I was just out in the soup. What heft! What majesty! This air has presence. It’s an old Hollywood starlet, making an entrance; a heavyweight boxer, knocking out his opponent in the final round.

This air is weighty; it’s a force to be reckoned with. I’m reckoning with it now by writing this post inside, where the humidity is a pleasant 40 percent.

(A patch of shade promises some relief.)

Paper and Tissues

Paper and Tissues

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I still read an actual newspaper, hard-copy person that I am. And I always have tissues on hand, usually a wad of them stuffed in my purse. But I don’t always associate the newspaper with the tissues. Today I did, though.

I needed the tissues as I read about Christmas in June for a 9-year-old cancer patient who may not live until December.

And I needed them again when I read about two Idaho firefighters killed by a sniper. Who ambushes firefighters?!

These stories as well as the usual barrage: bombings, famine, ICE raids.

I’m wary of the newspaper these days. I ignore many articles and balance my reading by listening to podcasts. But sometimes the accumulated heartlessness of the world, which the newspaper so faithfully records, makes Kleenex a necessity.

Two forms of paper, neither sanctioned. I have both; I believe in both. Sometimes I wish I didn’t.

Bullfrog Morning

Bullfrog Morning

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The bullfrogs were happy this morning. They bellowed beneath bridges, sang from the banks of reedy ponds. I didn’t see them, but I could imagine their slick skin, their bulging eyes, their camouflage coloring. They might be hard to spot, but their sounds give them away.

They were celebrating the moisture and the damp, joining their voices in thanksgiving, though they may not see it that way. No doubt mating is on their minds.

I’m glad I heard them, happy their voices rose over the barking dogs and the swim meet bullhorn. It’s good to know they’re hopping and croaking. It’s good to know they’re alive.

(A bullfrog birthplace? We often see tadpoles here.)

Some Positives

Some Positives

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It’s below 80 degrees, so I’m heading out to a paved trail soon. Now is not the day to traipse along a dirt path — too muddy — but I know where to walk among the trees and keep my feet dry. And with the first “coolish” (everything is relative) day we’ve had in a week, this walk will not be at the crack of dawn.

Today I was up and writing before sunrise. An hour later I was conked out again, a victim of my own early-morning ambition.

But isn’t it lovely to be able to go back to sleep? It’s something I couldn’t have dreamed of doing even just a few months ago, too much schoolwork. And I can walk whenever the mood strikes me, too.

Can you tell I’m looking for the positives today?

(Blooming hostas from yesterday’s walk. I snapped them to remind myself what the plant looks like before deer eat it.)

Sweet Silence

Sweet Silence

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The Taizé service at my church has moved from the chapel to the bell tower. Bell tower is the poetic way of putting it. It also feels like a lobby. But when you sit in one of the folding chairs and look up, the view goes on forever and our voices rise swiftly through that column of air.

Taizé is sung prayer, chanted prayer and silence. Usually, the silent period seems to last forever. But last night, it didn’t last long enough. Was it simply a shorter silent period, or is my silence tolerance improving?

“All profound things and emotions of things are preceded and attended by silence,” said Herman Melville. “Silence is the general consecration of the universe.”

Lofty words. Powerful words. All I know is that for me, last night, silence was sweet.

Early Enough?

Early Enough?

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Am I early enough? That’s the question I ask myself now. How early must I rise to walk and beat the heat?

When the low is 80 and the humidity is high, the truest answer is no answer. But the question remains. Yesterday I started before 6. Today a quarter past 7. Monday I was far too late, almost 9.

I tell myself it’s just summer heat. We’ve had it before and will have it again. I try to forget the heat warnings, to pace myself, drink water and stay inside during the heat of the day. I’ve done all of the this, but it’s not enough.

I need to rise even earlier, to take a siesta, to make the day conform to the weather, rather than the other way around. Either that, or I can wait for the heat to break. It will … eventually.

(A rice paddy in Bangladesh, a country that knows how to handle heat.)

First Movement

First Movement

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Last week, unable to stop listening to Schubert’s Sonata in B-flat Major, I took the next logical step. I found the music online and am now trying to learn this amazing piece.

As typical in an endeavor of this sort, I come up against my impatient personality and some basic questions: How many mistakes can I tolerate? How correct must I be? I have no teacher to suggest fingerings and dynamics. I’ll rely on YouTube and my own rusty technique.

The music has been in my head since the concert in Providence. Now I must get it into my fingers. I’m starting small, a page or two at a time. If I can even semi-master the first movement up to the repeat by the end of the summer, I’ll declare victory.

After the Pool

After the Pool

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The windows were down and my hair was flying. I had punched some buttons on the car radio and found the jazz station, which was playing a blues tune. The Beach Boys would have been better, but blues worked too.

This wasn’t just any drive; it was heading home from the pool, the quintessential summer excursion. Swim suit cool on the skin, air blowing through the car, wet towels on the back seat. The sun so warm on my bare left arm that I slathered it with sunscreen as I sat at a light.

What is it about driving home after the pool that seems the very soul of summer? Is it the weariness in the muscles? The trace of chlorine on the skin? Or is it knowing that you’ve imbibed the season in all its glory?

Powerless

Powerless

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No matter how often it happens, I never learn. Even though the radio has gone silent and the house is dark, I flick the switch, expecting light. No air-conditioning, of course, but I’ll use a fan. Nope! Fans need electricity, too.

It lasted only six hours, but it was the third power outage here since February. Once again, it reminds me how thin is the layer of civilization, how quickly it all comes tumbling down.

I’ll admit I’ve been spoiled living in this land of buried power lines. It has lulled me into a false sense of security. Maybe the neighbors are right. They bought a generator years ago, and its whir rubs salt in the wound. But it would take many more outages to justify the expense. Better to do without, to learn (and relearn) the lesson, to be reminded of how powerless we really are.

(Though our trees were spared, wind gusts at Dulles reached 66 mph and some homes were without power 24 hours later.)