Personal Correspondence

I'm thinking about today's to-do list and realizing that personal correspondence ranks high on it. By this I do not mean sending emails.

I mean penning a note to tuck into a birthday card to a friend I made in a church choir when I lived in Chicago. And dashing off a quick thank-you to the hostess for last Friday's dinner. And this is after yesterday, when I wrote a sympathy card.

This is not exactly 18th century in scope. But it's three times more cards or letters than I send in a week.  It's real mail, that which I love receiving and still send ... though not nearly often enough.

Make Bearable

Last night was the final episode of Burns and Novick's Vietnam War. It began and ended with Tim O'Brien reading from his book The Things They Carried. 

"They marched for the sake of the march. They plodded along slowly, dumbly, leaning forward against the heat, unthinking, all blood and bone, simple grunts, soldiering with their legs, toiling up the hills and down into the paddies and across the rivers and up again and down, just humping, one step and then the next and then another, but no volition, no will, because it was automatic, it was anatomy, and the war was entirely a matter of posture and carriage, the hump was everything, a kind of inertia, a kind of emptiness, a dullness of desire and intellect and conscience and hope and human sensibility."

While he read, the people who had been our companions through this series — the Americans, the South Vietnamese, the North Vietnamese, the Viet Cong, the soldiers, the antiwar activists, the vets, the military brass — we got to see what they are doing now. They are teachers and counselors, a judge. But more of them than not, it seems, are writers.

This brought some comfort. The film stirred up feelings in all of us who lived through the war, raised questions that will never be answered, dredged up divisions that still rankle. But it showed that sometimes art can distill and, if not heal, at least lance, drain and make bearable.

Missing Poetry

Some people have their morning coffee; I have my morning poetry. Or at least I used to. Today I learned that my radio station is developing some "exciting new programs," and to make way for them will stop airing The Writer's Almanac at 6:45 a.m. Listeners can still hear the program online, the announcer said.

But they won't, I'm afraid.  Or at least this one will not. I've had the program delivered to my inbox for years and I never listen to Garrison Keillor read the poem of the day. Sometimes I read it, but I  never listen to it.

No, what I had for years was serendipity. The program aired when I was often driving to Metro, and I could sip tea and drive and start the day with a gasp or a sigh; with a roll of the eyes or a sudden watering of them.

Poetry moves me. Even in the morning. I'll miss it.

Behind the Wheel

Women in Saudi Arabia have just been given the right to drive. It's a much-needed step toward equality in that nation, and I'd glad that it's finally happening.

Makes me think about a time in my life when driving meant liberation, which was decades ago, when I first got my license. Now driving is an irksome duty, a way to move from A to B. Now I feel more liberated walking or riding a bike than I do driving a car. It's hard to feel free when you're sitting in traffic or jostling with trucks on the Beltway.

Good to be reminded, though, of the pleasures of locomotion, of not being dependent on others for transport. I could be sitting on one of those buses in Bangladesh, the battered ones that seem to have been in countless crashes. Or I could be on the back of a zemidjan in Benin, hanging on for dear life as motorscooters careen around me.

But instead I have a car of my own and can propel myself wherever I need to go. It's nice to be reminded that it's nice to have wheels.

All Together Now

I'm still being riveted nightly by the 18-hour documentary film "The Vietnam War." And I mean that literally — as in riveted each night.

It's interesting to talk with people about the show and the different ways they are watching it. Some started it a week ago Sunday, kept up with last week's nine hours as best they could but will admit to being a little behind.

Others are recording it and planning to binge-watch it later, seeing it as all (or most) of a piece. This is the television style of day, of course. To take control of one's viewing, watch as little or as much as one wants at a time, place (and with a delivery method) of one's choosing.

As for me, I'm watching the film in real-time.  Even night before last, when Claire and Tomas were over for dinner, I watched what I could and then caught up with the rerun, also known as an "encore presentation," which my PBS station runs directly after the first show of the evening.

While my viewing habits are in part dictated by lack of technical knowledge (including DVR technique), they are also generational. I like keeping up with the show on its own time. I feel a kinship with all the people watching at the same time. There's a communal aspect to this that soothes and heals.

And where did I develop this habit of communal viewing? From annual TV events like "The Wizard of Oz" and "Peter Pan,"  From watching "My Three Sons" with Mom and Dad (provided I brush my teeth beforehand so I could jump in bed the minute the show ended at 9 p.m.). And ... from watching some of the same evening newscasts that have been replayed on "The Vietnam War."

(Photo: CNN.com.)

Equinox

On Friday, the Equinox, I was so busy writing about the hummingbirds' departure that I didn't write about the day itself, its significance as a turning point. From now till March we will have less light than darkness. The only good thing I can say is that the years pass quickly enough now that spring will be here in no time.

After a string of cool mornings and sultry afternoons, it's easy to believe that life will always be like this: no cold, no clouds. But the balance has tilted, the leaves are turning. Soon we will have chill rain and bare trees.

There are consolations, of course, time to turn inward, clean closets, make soup. The great feasts come soon after, and maybe a bright white snowfall. I look forward to those things. But oh, I hate to see the world tilt, the light go.

Gone for the Season

The hummingbirds are gone for the season. I had an inkling of this last weekend with their even more voracious feeding. It looked as if they were stoking up for the long journey south — and apparently they were. Something in the light has triggered their departure. They won't return until late April.

In the last few years I've seen a lot of hummingbirds. The two feeders off the deck rail reel them in, and in April there were five breeds to ogle at Arizona's Ramsay Canyon.

Watching them closely dispels some notions. Hummingbirds are pugnacious creatures, always fighting among themselves. In this way, they remind me of humans. Also in their greediness. But unlike humans they are capable of breathtaking flight, of suspension in air.

Hummingbirds make a high-pitched squeak that I thought I heard several times yesterday. But every time I looked up the feeders were empty. It must be the small peep of the robin or chickadee that I'm hearing — not the hummingbird. I'm surprised by how much I miss them.

Backward Glance

A couple days ago on a walk around the block, I came across the end of a beach volleyball game in Crystal City. Couldn't resist snapping a photo of the sand. To heck with the game, it's the sand I love, the sand I crave. So, on this last day of summer ... a backward glance at this summer's beaches.

I had my Florida beach fix in August, days of sun and surf with tropical breezes and breathtaking sunsets.

And then, I took in a bonus beach in Bangladesh. Cox's Bazar is the longest natural beach in the world., and we managed to find a spare hour to visit it despite our crammed-full schedule.

I'm thinking of it now, the width and the breadth of it, the people and animals we met: a young girl selling shells, a labor trafficking victim who'd gotten a new start in life as a photographer, a merchant hawking pearls, a yellow dog.

It was a different kind of beach experience, no towels or chairs, no umbrellas, no skimpy suits. It was a rock-strewn beach with dark, hard-packed sand. But it was glorious just the same.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Last night's episode lasted two hours. As I drifted in and out of sleep (it was a long day), I witnessed rounds of mortar fire, heard old tapes of Johnson with McNamara, learned more about the Gulf of Tonkin error. Where have I been all these years? Obviously, not learning about Vietnam.

The conflict of my lifetime is being plumbed every night this week with a new Ken Burns and Lynn Novick documentary, "The Vietnam War." Like a good baby boomer I'm watching every minute of it.

How strange to hear those voices again, Kennedy's "heah," Johnson's twang; to see the faces that I remember from black-and-white newscasts. The history of our youth is strange. Is it history, if we've lived through it? Of course it is. It's just that we've lived long enough for it to become so.

My favorite part is the ending of each episode and the music that accompanies it. Last night's was "Turn, Turn, Turn," the Byrd's version. I like the harmony, I like the lyrics (hard to beat Ecclesiastes). It's playing as I write this post. "To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven."

(Looking for an old photo from roughly this era — and this is the best I can do. Blurry is better in this pic of Mom and me on my high school graduation. Go Blue Devils!) 

Coat Tails Flying

I saw him from the bus window, a lone biker on a share cycle, not his own road bike. He was wearing no helmet and his hair was in a bun.

What caught my eye, though, was his suit jacket. It was flaring out behind him as he rode, and it made him seem, though he was suited for a day in the office, about eight years old.

He was any kid on the way to the park or the pool on a delicious summer afternoon, all his life before him. He was free! But better than that, he managed to capture this feeling on the way to work.

He was not practicing safe behavior. There was no bike helmet in sight. But I couldn't take my eyes off him. We were behind him all the way down Clarendon, as I watched his coat tails fly.

Earth from Saturn

When the children were young and studying the planets, Suzanne decided she didn't like Saturn. "It's a show-off, Mom," she said. All those rings, you know.

I've been thinking of Saturn the last few days as images of it were beamed back by the spacecraft Cassini, which plunged into the planet's atmosphere on Friday, ending a splendid 20-year mission.

For decades Cassini has been enlarging our knowledge of the solar system, taking us to Saturn's cool green moon Titan, and, with its Huygens lander, actually touching down on the moon's rocky surface. Cassini discovered plumes of water vapor spouting from another moon, Enceladus, and made many other discoveries.

And then there were the photographs Cassini sent back. The rings and moons and other planets. My favorite is the NASA pic I've reposted here.  Earth is the tiny speck on the lower right-hand side of this photo.  Beautiful, yes — and very, very small.

Bountiful Begonias

Some years it's the impatiens that rule the yard, other years the day lilies shine. This year, it's the begonias that are taking my breath away.

They're big without being leggy. Their whites, pinks and reds are brighter, more intense. They are, hands down, the most attractive flowers in the neighborhood. And I don't just mean my begonias, the ones in pots on the deck (pictured here), but the ones at the neighborhood entrance and all over the area, they're gorgeous, too.

Begonias have long been the workhorse annual of the garden. They are cheerful whether dry or wet, and they last well into the fall. There's a tendency, to discount them, much as we do the always willing friend.

So today, I break ranks, take notice and find the time to say, thank you, begonias, for a summer's worth of bloom.

Sky Bridge

A late walk last night, strolling through sunset into nightfall. Crickets were chirping, bats were swooping and down at the corner the second-bloom honeysuckle was wafting its delicious scent over the distinctive odor of the manure fertilizer some homeowner had just spread.

We aren't used to barnyard scents here in the suburbs. A few miles down the road is a little farm park where I used to take the children when they were young. There are plenty of pungent odors there.
But here it's a sanitized suburban aroma.

But I was soon past it and on my way back. The day was darkening, and I couldn't keep my eyes off the sky. Maybe because it was the lightest thing to look at — or maybe because I was listening to Chabrier on my iPod and thinking about Dad playing the same music decades ago.

What a link music becomes, a bridge between the living and the dead.

Meta Me

This blog grew from a habit of daily writing, a habit that began when I was in high school and a student teacher made us keep a journal. This would be a commonplace book of sorts, the teacher said. We could use it to reflect on the books we were reading, the lives we were living. Decades later I'm still on assignment, still scribbling to make sense of things.

One thing I hadn't done much is to read the journals I've written. Except for the odd case when I needed to check a date or a fact, I've tucked each book away as soon as I finished it and moved on to the next one.

Until recently, that is. For some reason I've gotten interested in what I wrote last year or the year before. These are not exactly page-turners — I know how they end! — but I'm finding it a useful way to herd stray thoughts and gain perspective.

So even though it's the ultimate meta exercise — not only do I analyze my life while I'm living it but then I read the analysis! — I'm pressing on. It's a meta me!

In the Dark

One of the things that pulls me into the office early is the ability to work in the dark for an hour or so. It's so calm here in the lamp light, the overheads quiet and still. Desks and file cabinets are dim shapes. There's a fuzziness to things that allows for slow absorption.

This morning it's even cozier because of the rain. With a bit of imagination I could be working in my living room, lit only by the glow of a computer screen.

But soon the switch will be flipped and light will flood the room. The desks and file cabinets will jump to attention.

I'm steeling myself already ... but with any luck I have a few more minutes in the dark.

Weighing the Differences

It will probably take months to digest all the sights and sounds of Bangladesh, and the feelings I had experiencing them. Strolling to work this morning in a light drizzle, I noted the lack of people, the lack of goats — the lack of life.

It's a safe, clean, sanitized world here. We've made it that way, we want it that way. I'm not complaining.

But there is a jumbling, jarring craziness there that I miss. Horns honking, buses flying, rain falling. Life lived in the open, nothing much left out. Now that I'm back here in the relative quiet, I'm weighing the differences.

Birds in the Eye

Everyone asks where the birds go in a hurricane, the weather man said, then immediately answered his own question. They go to the eye. They leave their home and move with the wind. They seek safety in motion.

So into yesterday afternoon's pictures of sheeting rain and furious gusts came an image — blue skies and calm winds. An over-the-rainbow extravaganza with Disney-like birds flitting from bough to bough while a tempest raged around them.

Not exactly. The real eye was significantly less dramatic. But the palms stopped blowing and there was an eerie silence. I saw no birds.

Hurricanes have to be one of nature's strangest phenomena. Waters sucked out of harbors, fish flapping, the eye wall, the eye — and then, a complete reversal, the back side of the storm. Winds shift direction and waters surge in, strengthened and pushed by the gale. 

And what of the birds then? They stay with the eye, they fly with the eye. They've learned something most of us never do: to find the calm center, to stay the course.

Feeling for Florida

The picture taking up much of today's front page features a white whirling dervish of a storm swirling toward a slender green peninsula. From this vantage point, Florida seems nothing more than a vulnerable appendage, a state that should be retractable, though what it would retract into I am not sure. Georgia, perhaps?

My recent trips to Florida have made me fond of the place. It's a beach lover's paradise, and its tropical air and foliage set it apart from the rest. It's another world for me, and it's threatened like it hasn't been in decades.

The picture leaves little to the imagination. It's hard to see how Irma could do anything but clobber the state. All we can hope for now is that there be as little loss of life (none, please!) and property as possible. Now we're all feeling for Florida.

Faded Flower

The wonder of it all is why we're not all sick more often. Or at least that's what I think when laid low. I mean, think of the germs we come into contact with on a daily basis. Think of our valiant immune systems, fighting them off.

But sometimes, our immune systems come up against something they can't surmount. That's what's happened to me since I returned from Bangladesh. While I'd like to think this is something I picked up at home, all signs point to it being a souvenir of my wonderful trip.

I've been remembering the last couple of days. Should I have peeled that apple before eating it? It came from the swanky Dhaka hotel, so I didn't. Or did I ingest a smidgen of non-bottled water when brushing my teeth?

Questions without answers. All I know is that I feel a lot like the faded flower pictured here. Nothing to do but hang on, wait it out — and keep pumping the ginger ale.

Feeling Rocky

Not sure whether the virus I have now originated in Bangladesh, the airplane (most likely culprit) or right here at home, but whatever the source, it has laid me low. I have a pile of work to do and lack the stomach (literally) to attack it.

Instead, I'm forced to bed, hoping to avoid yesterday's fogginess but not quite sure that I can.

To help the time pass, I'll remember some of the sights I've just seen. Fantastical images of a world that already seems a million miles away:

A rainbow at the end of our boat trip through the Sunderbans.

Jute drying in the sun. 

A magical garden of hanging plants.

Familiarity

Woke up in the middle of the night unsure of where I was. Was it Dhaka or Chittagong? Khulna or Munshiganj? Jessore or Cox's Bazar?

It came to me in layers and waves: It was my own bed in my own house with the window where it always is. It was familiarity: my own mug with my own tea (a decaf blend) with plenty of milk and sugar.

I've been awake for two hours but feel like I could go out again. Maybe I will. But first, a tribute to the unexpected place where I find myself now:  home.

Back Home!

I"m home, where it's 30 degrees cooler and 10 hours later, and where I sit with the last of the roses and crickets chirping in that restrained way they do in late summer.

I'm awash in the familiar, which seems strange after two weeks in an exotic locale, where traveling was significantly slower and more colorful than a spin on the Beltway.

Right now, I barely know where I am. Somewhere in between, I suppose, which could mean the airspace over India, Iran, Poland, northern Scotland or Labrador.

Maybe I'm hanging out in the ether, or at least my time sense is. All I know is ... If I can remain upright for 90 more minutes I will call it a (very long) day.