An Adventure

An Adventure

Today, to avoid traffic, I plan to drive 20 or 30 miles out of my way, to etch a trail up and over rather than down and across. To take a country road rather than an interstate. It sounds crazy, which is why I’m calling it an adventure.  

I wonder if anyone has studied the miles people drive to avoid sitting on highways. If not, I propose the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area as a prime location for research. With two states plus the District of Columbia, one river and too few bridges (once you’re out of the city), our neck of the woods is filled with idling cars and fuming motorists.  

Tell us, please, what we can do about it … apart from having “adventures,” of course.   

(Evening rush hour on I-66)                                                                                                                                               

Thin Places

Thin Places

I picked it up from the library’s new nonfiction section, intrigued by the title: Thin Places: A Natural History of Healing and Home. I wasn’t disappointed. Keri ní Dochartaigh’s memoir is a cry of pain, a poetic rendering of human suffering, as she turns her personal experience of Ireland’s “troubles” into a love song for white moths, ocean swims and her damaged island home.

With a Catholic mother and a Protestant father, Dochartaigh didn’t belong anywhere, a truth that became even clearer after her childhood home was firebombed. She never felt safe growing up, and the grief she carried as an adult almost drove her to suicide. 

But Dochartaigh found solace in the very place that wounded her. After leaving Ireland as a young adult, she feels called to return to her hometown of Derry, arriving just as Brexit is threatening a hard-won peace. 

Dochartaigh takes comfort in the natural world. “There are still places on this earth that sing of all that came and left, of all that is still here and of all that is yet to come. Places that have been touched, warmed, by the presence of something.”

The thin places she finds hold her, hollow and hallow her. She finds in them a reason to go on.  

Maybe May

Maybe May

It’s May Day, the first day of a glorious month, not a holiday in this country but in many others. I used to tell my daughters, if you’re looking for a lovely time of year to be married, the beginning of May is that time. They were married in April, September and December.  So much for motherly advice. 

But what’s interesting about time and weather patterns is that I wouldn’t say this today. A decade or so ago, early May was a reliably beautiful time of year, prime azalea season, iris yet to pop, plenty of color amidst the green. These days it’s unsettled. We might have such a May 1, but more than likely we won’t. This year’s unseasonably warm winter means it’s looking decidedly summery, though it’s quite chilly, an odd combination, to say the least.

We talk a lot about climate change with its serious implications for life on this planet. But shifts in longtime patterns of growth and maturity, planting and harvesting, affect us more subtly too. They prey on our spirits and mess with our minds. 

(An azalea in its prime … on April 14, 2023.)

First Storm

First Storm

It’s pouring as I write this post, and there’s lightning, too. The first thunderstorm of the season. It’s rained so little this spring that I’ve almost forgotten the thrill of it,

I think about the thunderstorms of my youth, wind whistling through open windows, the rush to close the ones the rain was pouring through. The delicious feel in the air afterwards. There’s chemistry involved, I later learned, something about negative ions and positive mood.

What a cozy way to spend a Sunday morning, nothing expected except figuring out how to get the newspaper, which is outside … somehow … into the house.

(Rain is hard to photograph; this is one time I almost captured it. New York City, July 2021.)

Question and Answer

Question and Answer

There’s no doubt about it: I’m strange. What adult willingly chooses to go back to school — to read all the time and pay money to write papers, especially given that for most of my career, I was paid to write papers (aka articles). 

 I ask myself this question often, especially at this point of every semester. At least I’ve completed my take-home final and am closing in on completing the research paper. This class wasn’t even as writing-heavy as some of the others. 

But still, I ask myself the question. Yes, there is the keeping-myself-busy explanation. But there are many ways I could do that. I guess it’s because I want to keep learning, and I learn best when I write things down. In the end, it’s as simple as that. 

A Pilgrimage

A Pilgrimage

Yesterday, a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, the largest Catholic church in the country, which was (amazingly enough) only completed this decade. Organized by my church, it was a day of prayer and discovery, a capstone of the bible study we’d been doing during Lent, with its theme of pilgrimage.

But for me, the pilgrimage took on an additional layer of meaning because it was also a return to Catholic University, which is next door to the basilica. Once upon a time, I worked at Catholic U., writing articles for their alumni magazine and website. This was in the days of in-person work, so five days a week I trundled down to northeast D.C. 

Yesterday’s return didn’t disappoint. There were the old buildings I remembered and a few recent additions. There was the grandly grim McMahon Hall, home of the College of Arts and Sciences and where the communications team had a small warren of offices on the third floor . 

I never tired of walking two floors up the broad and inviting stairway, never stopped being amazed that I was working in an office again after 17 years of freelance work. I turned my desk around so I looked out the window over the campus and beyond, into Maryland. There were treetops and steeples. I felt like a bird perched on a ledge. In fact, birds did perch on my ledge, and the stones of the thick walls were medieval in their size and roughness.

Then and now the neighborhood feels like a world apart. Yesterday’s visit reminded me that one of the things I loved about working at Catholic was its sense of place. I felt at home there. I still do.

4,000!

4,000!

Today the blog hits a milestone: its four-thousandth post. It seems like I was just celebrating its three-thousandth, but that was in February, 2020. A lot has happened since then: a pandemic, an election, a wedding … and grandchildren! 

What doesn’t change is that most days I start my day here, typing words on this laptop that I send out into the world, like so many small birds flying in that heedless way they do in spring. Such brave, tender creatures. 

Because once I release them, these posts have a life of their own. They land with a galumph or a splash. But always they land, even when posted from improbable places

Today I send out my four-thousandth with as much curiosity and hope as I did my first

(Thanks again to my youngest daughter, Celia, for the sign she made three years ago.)

The Full Fridge

The Full Fridge

Long ago, when I was writing a magazine article about what parents could do to promote family happiness, I remember being surprised at the additional point my editor suggested adding. It’s good to keep the refrigerator stocked with good food, she said.

I’d been interviewing experts about family self-esteem and other heady topics, forgetting that all the good feelings in the world aren’t much help unless there’s a healthy body to receive them. 

Our refrigerator serves only two people now, so there’s a limit to how stocked it can be. But a couple of recent holidays plus entertaining out-of-town family last weekend means it’s been fuller than it usually is. And yes, that is happy-making … but only because it means I won’t have to cook this week. 

(No open-fridge photos this morning, but here’s one of a salad that came out of it.)

Words and Flowers

Words and Flowers

Today, inspiration in my inbox. Sunday’s “Marginalian,” which I didn’t have time to read yesterday, reminds me (in the voice of diarist, novelist and poet May Sarton) to choose joy over will. 

Though the context in which she makes this point is through her love of gardening, a love I only partially share (I appreciate the garden a lot more than the gardening) Sarton’s point is well-taken. 

“Gardening is like poetry in that it is gratuitous, and also that it
cannot be done on will alone,” Sarton wrote. “What will can do, and the only thing it
can do, is make time in which to do it.”

This is the point I will take with me through the day, to let myself off the hook if the words don’t flow as I wish they would … that I can make the time, and that is essential, but the words come when they want to come. Just like the flowers.

For Love of Place

For Love of Place

On this earth day I’m thinking about the places I love best on this planet: my home in Virginia, starting with the house and yard and moving beyond to woodland paths and trails, the spokes of a wheel of caring.

My hometown of Lexington, Kentucky, with its old brick homes and its new distillery district; with its rolling grasslands, shaggy limestone cliffs, white fences and horse farms.

Other places I have lived and loved: New York City, which inspired and thrilled me in my youth and revives me still. Chicago, which I heard about all my young life and where I went to college.  Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas, with its friendly people and its views that go on forever. And Groton, Massachusetts, small town extraordinaire, where I gave birth to our first child. 

On Earth Day we honor this, our only planet, and think about ways to protect and promote its health and longterm viability. But all this protection and promotion starts with love. It’s love that emboldens us, that helps us make the tough choices, do the hard things. Unless we truly care about the earth, what incentive do we have to safeguard it?   

(Above: Joe Pye weed blooms in a Kentucky meadow on a perfect August morning, 2021.)