Fulsome Fourth

Fulsome Fourth

Comments 0 Comment

The firecracker-hot weather we’ve had (only a slight exaggeration) has cooled enough that we can enjoy the outdoors for a few hours without feeling faint. With this in mind, there may be a parade and a glimpse of fireworks. At the very least there will be kiddos and watermelon and ice cream.

The Fourth falls on a good day this year, on a blessed Friday, providing a much-needed three-day weekend to relax and recharge. For that reason, I’m thinking of it as fulsome. And it needs to be.

Sometimes it seems that patriotism is being purloined by one end of the political spectrum. On travels through the country, I’ve noticed more Ukrainian flags than Old Glories in some neighborhoods. When I think about our country, it’s a bit like the image above. There is a darkness abroad in the land; the flag is not flying as freely as it should. Which is why we need to counteract it with our words and deeds. Today, our small flag will be flying proudly.

(Concept credit for this photograph goes to Drew Cassidy. I shot it, but he framed it. Thanks, brother!)

Their World

Their World

Comments 0 Comment

The parakeets have moved to a new room of the house, what I think of as the morning room. It’s full of sunshine at this time of the day and the rays are enlivening the birdies, who are flapping and fluttering around their aviary cage.

Soon they catch their breath and perch side by side, looking out the window. What do they see? Not just the grass and trees and raggedy azaleas that I glimpse. It’s a landscape pulsing with colors invisible to the human eye; they can perceive ultraviolet light, too.

Having them here, in this room and this house, is a constant reminder of the “immense world” we inhabit, a term I borrow from a book by Ed Yong. It’s a book I’ve read recently and am only mentioning in this post — I hope to explore it more fully in another.

For now, suffice it to say that the parakeets sense their own slice of reality just as we humans sense ours. Having a better idea of theirs makes mine that much richer.

In Praise of Paths

In Praise of Paths

Comments 0 Comment

“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

Comments 0 Comment

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

Comments 0 Comment

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

Comments 0 Comment

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

Comments 0 Comment

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

Comments 0 Comment

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?

Comments 0 Comment

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

Comments 0 Comment

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.