Water Therapy

Water Therapy

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A 12-hour day leaves my right (mouse) hand tingly and numb. This has happened before and usually goes away. I vow to change positions more during long writing sessions. I also decide to go swimming last night.

There were still plenty of kids in the pool at 8:15, and the one courteous Japanese man I’ve met in the lap lane before, who bows his head and stays to the right. A funny lifeguard yells animal names at little divers as they spring off the board. “Tiger!” “Cow!” “Snake!” In the split second between the command and the water they are supposed to pounce, graze and slither.

I watch them, treading water as close to the deep end as I can, side-stroking carefully to keep my hair dry. Their giggles make me smile. As I trail my hands slowly through the water, I feel the long day slipping away.

Three Doors

Three Doors

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This morning before work I look down the second-floor hallway. All three doors are closed. All three girls are home and sleeping in their rooms rather than the basement, the couch in the office or on the deck.

I pause for a moment at the top of the stairs, savoring the rightness of this, knowing, even as a I savor, how rare and precious it is.

The hall in this half light is cropped and close; in it, we seem more together than apart.

As and Ps

As and Ps

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Once a month or so, Celia and I work at a food bank. We sort cans, shelve food, or make up boxes called “As and Ps.” “A” boxes contain cereal, peanut butter and jelly plus the usual complement of dried pasta, canned meats, vegetables and soups. “B” boxes hold more fruit and fruit juice, more meat and tuna, and, if possible, canned milk. I have a new appreciation for canned milk since we’ve worked there, will always give it to food banks if I have a chance.

Coming home after one of our expeditions I debate what to make for dinner. It shouldn’t be steak or lamb chops, not that we have those much anyway. And it shouldn’t be based on fresh fruits or vegetables. Something simple, whipped up from a can or a jar. Spaghetti with sauce. A simple salad from a bag. French bread. We eat well. We eat in solidarity.

Photo: Free-Extras

Outside In

Outside In

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The heat is building. It will be 95 today. But the last three days have been a reprieve: cool nights and thinly warm days. No blanket of humidity. Just clean heat and when the sun goes down a hint of chill.

Which means we turned off the air-conditioning, opened the windows and kept the door to the deck ajar these last few days.

Summer is at its peak when this boundary is broken. Copper wanders at will from couch to yard, no scratching to be let in. We have the same freedom. Indoors or out, what does it matter? It is all one. What liberation. This is what summer was made for: to bring the outside in.

Getting a Letter

Getting a Letter

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Some Harry Potter fans I know were chatting the other day. “Yeah, she’d get a letter,” they said of one member of our family. “No, he wouldn’t,” they said of another.

They were talking about letters of admission to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The occasion: the release of the final Hogwarts film.

This got me thinking about whimsy, one of the requirements for admission to Hogwarts, according to my sources.

When I was walking the shore in Chincoteague last week I spied a few highly whimsical pieces of beach art that made me smile. Whimsy. Got to keep it alive.

Prelude

Prelude

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Before the blog is written, before the essay, too, the floor must be swept, dishes stowed, smudges wiped. The grime that’s hidden, that can stay, but surface dirt is doomed.

Still, surface dirt takes time.

So words are choked, ideas evaporate — sometimes. Other times they come back, richer than before. On days I work at home I laugh at myself. To clear my mind I run around with vacuum and rag. It is the price I pay to write without guilt.

Hot Town

Hot Town

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Repaving time in Folkstone: Large trucks fill our quiet streets. The old surface is scraped off, ground down. Our road is corrugated and bumpy, uneven and unsettling. It is 95 degrees but feels 10 degrees hotter in the paving zone.

On evening walks I see the big machines hushed to stillness, parked at corners, hunks of metal, nothing else. I keep to the crushed gravel path. I don’t yet trust the smooth surface that covers only half the road. Is it too new to walk on? Does it need seasoning? And more importantly: Does it give us a fresh start?

Bird Listener

Bird Listener

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I’m not sure, but I think I have what it takes to become a birdwatcher. A few years ago I would not have admitted this. But lately I’ve been drawn to birds, and I spent a lot of time watching them last week.

Chincoteague is a birders’ paradise, especially in spring and fall when migrating shore birds and song birds — warblers, vireos and indigo buntings — stop in for a day or two on the way to their final bough or branch.

Last night as I was coming home from work I heard the most beautiful bird song. It was a mockingbird, I think, perched on the upper level of the Metro parking garage, and the little creature was unspooling such a ribbon of song that I thought more commuters would lift their eyes to find the source.

Making it through another day often requires that we keep our heads down, and bird listening (if not watching) is a good antidote to that habit. If I don’t become a bird watcher, at least I will become a bird listener. Guess I already am.

Getting Out

Getting Out

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I hadn’t ridden Metro in 10 days and my first day back brought a delay. “This train is being off-loaded. Everyone out,” the conductor shouted. So we grabbed our bags and backpacks and joined the crush of other commuters on the platform.

It was dark and steamy. Passengers were not happy. It’s one thing to end your day with an off-load; starting it that way, when you’re morning crisp, is especially trying.

Then it dawned on me. Yes, it was already 80 at 7 a.m., but I was close enough to walk to the office. So I maneuvered my way down the platform and up the escalator to the outside world. The sidewalks were wide and the morning was bright. There was a faint breeze. I was out of the tunnel and could see far ahead.

Vacations, even short ones, show me the edges of things, reveal ways around obstacles. They help me see that I am not trapped.


Photo: PublicDomainPictures.net

Return, Remember

Return, Remember

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A new ritual of return: Cleaning out the email inbox. I tried to be diligent this time. I curbed that index finger. It wanted to hit delete far too often. Instead, I took my time and gave every email the time it deserved. From a week’s worth of general announcements, spam and cc’s, I ended up with a handful of genuine must-attend-to’s. Now, the real work begins…

When I feel overwhelmed, I’ll remember scenes like this.