I Wonder as I Wander

The Christmas music season is drawing to a close. My favorite classical station stopped the carols cold-turkey on December 26, though we'll be singing holiday hymns at church for another couple of weeks. Time to give a nod to a song I've heard often this season, a relatively new entry to the Christmas canon, "I Wonder as I Wander."

It's a haunting melody in a minor key, more "We Three Kings" than "Joy to the World." But it is lovely and soft, a light snowfall on a still night. And ... it was written by a Kentuckian, John Jacob Niles, a noted balladeer who collected Appalachian tunes later popularized by folk singers in the 1950s and '60s.

I met John Jacob Niles several times at a Christmas Eve gathering hosted annually by my kindergarten teacher, Grace Cramer Webber, who became a friend of my mother's. Like Niles, Webber was both behind and ahead of her time.

It isn't easy to have your carol enter the Christmas canon — but Niles' song has done just that.  As I listen I wonder, too. Not just about the birth of the baby Jesus, but about the power of music to take us places we otherwise couldn't go.

Paper Courage

Here at the short end of 2017, I awake as always with writing on my mind. I have my mentors, my sages, ones whose words lead the way. So this morning as I struggle with the words on my screen, I turn to words already set down by another. Words that reach across time and distance to encourage me, to set me straight.

No one has yet made a list of places where the extraordinary may happen and where it may not. Still, there are indications. Among crowds, in drawing rooms, among easements and comforts and pleasures, it is seldom seen. It likes the out-of-doors. It likes the concentrating mind. It likes solitude. It is more like to stick to the risk-taker than the ticket-taker. It isn't that it would disparage comforts, or the set routines of the world, but that its concern is directed to another place. Its concern is the edge, and the making of a form out of the formlessness that is beyond the edge. 

Of this there can be no question — creative work requires a loyalty as complete as the loyalty of water to the force of gravity. A person trudging through the wilderness of creation who does not know this — who does not swallow this — is lost. 

Mary Oliver, "Of Power and Time" from Upstream 

Time Travel

Pale Blue Dot (Earth from Voyager 1, 1990) Courtesy NASA

As mentioned below, yesterday I posted in the past. Though it was strange for me, for time travelers it was just another day in the space-time continuum. That would be those who zip to ancient Babylon in a wormhole, or who believe in the Many Worlds theory, which posits that everything that ever could happen actually has — in another universe.

"We have achieved a temporal sentience that our ancestors lacked," writes James Gleick in Time Travel, a book he penned in his past, my (then) future. "No one bothered with the future in 1516." In fact, time awareness was dim until the 19th century, and the phrase "turn of the century" wasn't used until the 20th.

But once we had temporal sentience we could have time travel: H.G. Well's Time Machine and Robert Heinlein's Time for the Stars, Ursula Le Guin's Lathe of Heaven, Kate Atkinson's Life After Life — and scads of other books and films, including "Dr. Who," the original of which debuted shortly after Time Machine was made into a movie.

What was most fascinating (but difficult to understand) was the physics behind the yarns, the fact that time travel, though it remains science fiction, cannot be totally ruled out according to some interpretations of the universe. Or, as Einstein said, “People like us who believe in physics known that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.”

One might wonder why we need time travel in an age of cyberspace.  "All answers come down to one," says Gleick. "To elude death."

(This entry was posted in ... the future.)

Auto Pilot

It's below freezing here with a sky that means business (snow business). Birds flit from feeder to roost, keeping warm, I imagine. That's what I'd do if I were a bird.

Instead, I sit in a warm room observing my feathered friends, trying to work up the enthusiasm for a morning walk. Will the temperature rise past 32? That might trigger some movement on my part. Otherwise, I may have to sit a while longer, have another cup of tea.

Absent from the blogosphere for two days, I notice that the entry I thought I'd posted on Christmas Eve never published. Because I scheduled it for December 24, though, its time stamp makes it appear as if I published it on that day.

It's a vote against auto-pilot ... but a vote in favor of time travel. About which more will be said ... in the future. 

Appreciation

Once again the days have passed, the splendid ones and the trying ones. Once again we've come back to this point, which is for me, and for many, the great pause. Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. Soon to be followed by New Year's Day and the delicious week in between. Once again I'll re-run this blog post, one I wrote in 2011. Merry Christmas!

12/24/11

Our old house has seen better days. The siding is dented, the walkway is cracked, the yard is muddy and tracked with Copper's paw prints. Inside is one of the fullest and most aromatic trees we've ever chopped down. Cards line the mantel, the fridge is so full it takes ten minutes to find the cream cheese. Which is to say we are as ready as we will ever be. The family is gathering. I need to make one more trip to the grocery store.

This morning I thought about a scene from one of my favorite Christmas movies, one I hope we'll have time to watch in the next few days. In "It's a Wonderful Life," Jimmy Stewart has just learned he faces bank fraud and prison, and as he comes home beside himself with worry, he grabs the knob of the banister in his old house — and it comes off in his hand. He is exasperated at this; it seems to represent his failures and shortcomings.

By the end of the movie, after he's been visited by an angel, after his family and friends have rallied around him in an unprecedented way, after he's had a chance to see what the world would have been like without him — he grabs the banister knob again. And once again, it comes off in his hand. But this time, he kisses it. The house is still cold and drafty and in need of repair. But it has been sanctified by friendship and love and solidarity.

Christmas doesn't take away our problems. But it counters them with joy. It reminds us to appreciate the humble, familiar things that surround us every day, and to draw strength from the people we love. And surely there is a bit of the miraculous in that.


Photo: Flow TV

Shopping Local

Let empty boxes collect at curbsides, let the men in brown dash from truck to stoop. But last-minute shoppers unwilling to pay for overnight shipping (or maybe just people like me, who enjoy a bit of the hustle bustle) were out full force yesterday at the mall.

It felt good to be jostling with other shoppers, to be part of the public square. I've been worrying about the public square lately, wondering if its day has passed. Many of the young folks I know shop solely online, and recent forays to the mall have only confirmed the threatened condition of old-time getting and spending.

But yesterday drew out the folks who only shop this time of year: dazed men wandering with shopping bags; the very young and the very old; working folk who seem more at home behind a desk than checking out spatulas in Williams and Sonoma; parents jostling toddlers in the line to see Santa.

All of this in a glorious cacophony of squeaking toys, shouting kids and the nth rendition of "I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus."

I didn't have to go to the mall yesterday; I was buying a few extra gifts that everyone could live without. But I'm glad I came.

The News

For most of the year I grab the Washington Post from the driveway and read it on the way to work. Now I'm reading a different kind of news.

Friends from Groton, Massachusetts, have downsized to Bonita Beach, Florida. Family from South Carolina has met family from Sweden. There have been travels to Italy and Kenya and North Carolina. Children have grown, dogs have been photographed in Santa hats and people I love have lived another year.

Time is always passing, but this is when and how we mark it. Not with rue or agitation. But with joy and gratitude.

Season's Savoring

Recent rushed mornings have meant no chance to do what I'm doing now — to sit in front of the Christmas tree, typing on this machine and taking in this colorful scene.

This year, a bonus: I've wrapped enough presents ahead of time to put them under the tree — rather than transporting them directly from the wrapping station to the car, on their way to Ellen's house, where we've spent Christmas these last few years.

The goal now is to savor, not to rush or worry or strive for that one last gift. Gone are the days when someone begged for a retired beanie baby available only from eBay auction or a Playmobil dollhouse requiring hours of assembly.  People will be happy with what they receive.

I plan to do a lot more savoring in the next few days.

Crushed Shells

Just out on the deck for a moment this unseasonably warm morning, I find that some of the shells I'd laid out on a glass-top table have been scattered and crushed. This is not the end of the world — I should have put them away months ago. But they looked so pretty on the table, a natural collage, that I left them there way too long.

As I gathered them again to slip into a cup, I marveled at their tiny whorls and notches, at the beauty of their architecture, which is born of practicality. And I couldn't help but think of their collector, a young girl who was trying to earn a few coins from us on the beach in Cox's Bazar, Bangladesh. She had a shy pride about her, and an eagerness. Once she knew we were willing to pay for shells she took off for almost half an hour, combing through the tide pools looking for the loveliest specimens.

Now I'm thinking of her face when she opened her hands and showed us her collection. Some of the shells may be gone, but that memory has not faded at all.

Cathedral Chorale

To hear ancient music in an ancient structure amplifies its power. I'm talking about Saturday's concert of the Cathedral Choral Society, which was held in National Cathedral. Though the church itself isn't ancient, it was built to feel that way.

National Cathedral was erected in the 20th century, not the 12th. But the building transports you, from the first step over the transom into the crowded vestibule. This impression continues when you look up at the arched ceiling and see the sun slanting in the rose window.

And then the music starts —  "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel," "Lo, How a Rose E're Blooming" and "In the Bleak Midwinter" — and the experience is complete.

Happy Birthday, Beethoven!

Beethoven is not part of my daily musical diet. His symphonies are rich fare, and my tastes tend toward lighter chamber works these days. Which means that yesterday's radio bounty was music to my ears. (Because my radio station celebrated Beethoven's birthday yesterday — no doubt due to the Saturday afternoon opera and other weekend programming restrictions — I can write about his sublime music today with the benefit of recent inundation!)

I didn't listen to a whole symphony (I'll do that today), but the snatch of his Ninth Symphony I heard was powerful enough to keep me sitting in the car until the last triumphant notes.

Many would consider the Fifth and the Ninth symphonies — heck, maybe all Beethoven symphonies — old warhorses. But when you listen with fresh ears you realize why they became warhorses in the first place.

Whitish

A later-than-I-intended walk puts me out the door right as the snow started to fall. A fine sleet at first, but now that it's gotten started, a coating of white on deck and road.

I like walking in the beginnings of snowfalls, the world hushed and waiting. Today's totals will be less than Saturday's, but any snow this time of year is a bonus.

Will there be a white Christmas? I doubt it. But I'll take a whitish Christmas, too.

Mind Walking

For the last two days, my walks have consisted only of trips from the house to the car, the car to the Metro platform, the Metro platform to the bus stop, the bus stop to the office, the office to the bus stop, the bus stop to the Metro platform, and, well ... you get the picture.

It's a picture of a walk-starved person, someone who draws strength from movement but who isn't moving much these days. 

This will be remedied soon. In the meantime, I'm letting my mind do the walking. It's taking me down a white sand beach in Florida, along a slick brick sidewalk in Bangladesh and through a canopy of trees in a woods near my house.

Ahhhh .... I'm feeling better already. 

Leftover Lasagna!

In the homespun calculus of cooking, lasagna does not present a terribly difficult equation. But recent attempts at concocting the dish have reminded me that shortcuts make a difference.

Take no-boil noodles, for example. They save time but require liquid. Which also means they require more thought, especially if one uses a recipe meant for boiled noodles, which I did.

In the end, anything made with six cups of cheese is bound to be good. But now that I've started this lasagna gig, I'd like to perfect it.

Next time, I'll make a more liquid-y sauce. That is, after I eat up all the left-over lasagna from this round!

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Alone and Together

Yesterday's walk took us to Long Bridge park, where we could see the Washington Monument, planes taking off and landing, a red helicopter whirring toward the river, and a freight train lumbering along the tracks. We paused for a group shot, our fine and motley crew, then strolled back chattering about our work, our lives, our plans for the future.

A far different stroll happened last night. I left the H Street Country Club a few minutes before 8 and walked the 10 blocks to Union Station by myself. The H Street corridor has the grittiness of the newly gentrified neighborhood. Start-up boutiques, dark side streets, coffee shops with attitude, and panhandlers aplenty. It also has ... a streetcar, though I didn't see one heading west until I was almost at Union Station.

It was past 8:30 when I caught the first of two Metros, close to 10 when I got home. The walk made the day a little longer, but I'm so glad I took it. I needed to process Day One and prepare for Day Two. Walking: it's good together ... but it's better alone.

Retreat

As I prepare for a retreat at work, I think of yesterday morning's drive. I was out early and every branch was coated with snow. The clouds were piled in pinks and purples on the horizon and a big old red sun was peeping up above the trees.

We seldom get so much snow so early, and the timing was perfect. The houses and lawns were decked out with red ribbon and green wreaths, with lights and colors. Never was their purpose clearer: to light our way through these dark days.

But the beauty, that was something else. Roads were icy and gravel crunched beneath my tires. I drove slowly —  but still, I couldn't keep my eyes straight ahead. I kept looking up, down and around, mesmerized by the scene around me.

The day warmed quickly. An hour later that drive wouldn't have been the same. But for those few minutes ... I was in a retreat of my own.

First Snow

This snow meant business right from the start, clinging to grass and trees and leaf piles. I thought, as I walked, how snow cover brings out the essential nature of a thing. A fence looks more fence-like, a flower pot more flower-pot-like.

It this because it's accented in white? Or because the eye is trained in new directions?  Juncos have swooped in for seed and suet, and even, perhaps for the snow itself, flicking little bits of it as they peck. Are they drinking the snow or just moving it out of the way?

Questions without answers. On snow days, it's enough just to wonder.

Dark and Low

Winter has come to northern Virginia. We've fought it for weeks, one unseasonably warm day after another. But today the clouds are dark and low, and the trees are almost bare. When I look out the window I hear the words and the melody in my head: "All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray. California Dreamin' on such a winter's day."

Why does it come as something of a relief, these clouds, this low sky? As if warmth has outworn its welcome. I love warm days. But there comes a point when they seem outdated. It's time for days like this, days that invite staying home and being still.

Not an option for me today or for the next few weeks, but the great pause will soon be here, the holidays and year's end. I don't want to speed up my life too much — there are exciting moments in between — but I'm looking forward to a little rest.

Extra Large

A brief shopping trip last night found me wandering an almost-empty mall. Clerks chatted at vacant makeup counters or fussed with jewelry displays. There was no line to see Santa. Mall walkers had the run of the place.

As I pawed through sweaters I noticed something else. Almost all of them were extra large, some even extra-extra large. And at the bookstore, a similar lack of choice: Half of the well-reviewed, recently published books I was looking for were not on the shelves.

Yes, the stores will be busier this weekend — but not that much busier, from what I've heard.  People shop with their fingers now. I know this. I do it, too. There's infinite choice, less hassle. But I miss the market square and the hustle bustle. I wonder if it will ever come back.

In Harmony

Last night was my fourth Singalong Messiah, and I marveled as always at how a random crew of sopranos, altos, basses and tenors can come together in minutes to make an ensemble. 

What struck me this year was the harmony, that in this most discordant of times, we came together to make music. And that the beauty of the music came not just from melody but from polyphony, from pitches that are pleasing when heard together. 

Alone, we were warbling sopranos, plodding basses, energetic tenors and earnest altos. Together we were a choir. Obviously not the smoothest and most rehearsed but a choir just the same.

It was a good way to usher in the Christmas season. 

Letting it Soak

Yesterday I returned home from work to find the crockpot I'd left full of sudsy water the night before. It wasn't warm, sudsy water anymore, though. Now it was cold and gray and uninviting.

As I refilled the ceramic with warm water and soap and scrubbed it clean, I thought about how the great procrastination device of children (and adults!) everywhere — letting it soak — is often just what's needed.

Cleaning this the night before would have been a much harder task. Now I could whisk the stew remnants down the disposal, easily peel away the potato bits that had stuck to the sides. Water and time had worked their way.

Not a life-altering realization — but further proof that rushing through life is not always the best way to go.

Bone Deep

I read in the newspaper this morning a report about the strength of prehistoric women's arms.  Although at first glance this falls into the "yeah, right, what else is new?" category, it was fascinating to view the list of chores that researchers think account for the difference:

Tilling the soil with digging sticks (the plow had yet to be invented)
Grinding the grain with stones
Milking goats or cows and processing the milk
Making pottery
Turning wool and skins into textiles

"We've largely been underestimating the scale of this work," said Alison McIntosh of Cambridge, an author of the report. All this physical activity produced bones that were larger and stronger — but also showed signs of strain. These long-ago women routinely did more than they should.

While the shin bones of modern female athletes compare to those of prehistoric women, the arm bones are another matter. The ancient women's bones appeared even stronger (and more strained) that those of current female crew team members.

I think of these prehistoric women digging and grinding, I think of my own puny arms, of my life of ease, sitting at a desk, typing words on a small keyboard.  It's good to be reminded of the difference.

R.I.P., Writer's Almanac

It always seemed too good to be true, a radio show just for writers. And now it's gone dark. Every link I click leads to a Minnesota Public Radio statement about Garrison Keillor's alleged sexual misconduct and the organization's decision to terminate its relationship with him, Prairie Home Companion and the Writer's Almanac.

The show had a 24-year run, debuting in 1993. I don't remember when I first started listening to it on the radio, but I do know I'd turn up the dial whenever it came on, would glean some historical fact or the other, that it was birthday of George Eliot or the anniversary of the publication of Walden. When my own muse was on holiday, the Writer's Almanac muse would step in. In one month, November 2011, it came to the rescue several times.

That was the fall I took the wonderful class A Sense of Place, whose professor, Charlie Yonkers (who became a friend), urged us all to have the Almanac delivered to our in-boxes. I did, and have never stopped.

My radio show station, WAMU, stopped airing the program a  few months ago, so I'd been paying even closer attention to the emails. The last one arrived November 29, which was, it informed me, the birthday of Bronson Alcott, Louisa May Alcott and C.S. Lewis. How will I learn this stuff now? Even the archives are gone.

So I re-read this last entry, pondered its power to inspire, my eyes lingering on the last line. It was the way all the Almanacs signed off, and I can hear Keillor reading these words in his distinctive deep baritone: "Be well, do good work, and keep in touch."