Zzzzzz!

I'll try to make tomorrow's post brisk and wide-awake and forward-looking.  But today's is ... a celebration of slumber.

That's because, though I've done a bit of visiting, baking, cleaning, reading and movie-watching these last 10 days, what I've done most and best of all is sleep.

This is not an insignificant achievement, since sleep is something that often eludes me in the normal course of events. Faced with a slew of hours to fill, I'm glad I've filled many with early bedtimes, late mornings and even a three-hour nap!

I've enjoyed waking up to light, not darkness; to knowing there's no Metro to catch or work to do. As January 2 draws nigh, what I will miss most about these lovely, end-of-year days is the ability to roll over and catch some more winks.

Book Notes

First I started listing them, now I take notes on them, too.

In the continual struggle to hold onto and make sense of what I read, I have for years now typed up notes on the books I want to remember.

From yesterday's on Origin Story:

Luca is our "last universal common ancestor"— a hypothetical creature, sort of alive but not fully alive, a porous rock that lived at the edge of alkaline oceanic vents. From Luca (and there were many Lucas) all earthly life flows. But it took three billion years to move from Luca to the multicellular organisms that ultimately gave rise to big life.

Or this: the progress of evolution, much like the life of a soldier, consisted of long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. In this case, though, the terror came from mass extinctions, the greatest of which occurred 248 million years ago when 80 percent of all life vanished from the planet probably as the result of massive volcanic eruptions.

The older I get, the more I wish I'd learned when I was younger. But in the case of this book, I console myself with the knowledge that many of these facts weren't even discovered when I was younger!

Tale of Tears

Speaking of "It's a Wonderful Life," I watched it last night. It was the perfect way to end Boxing Day and our two-day celebration at my sister Ellen's.

Every time I watch the movie (and I watch it almost every year), I'm glad I did. Not many movies hold up to multiple viewings, and the fact that this one does proves its depth of feeling and detail.

I woke up this morning thinking about George Bailey's righteous indignation ("this rabble you're talking about, they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this town"), of the tender scene between George and his mother (played by the actress Beulah Bondi, who was Stewart's mother on screen five different times) and of Uncle Billy's animals (the pet crow was actually a pet raven named Jimmy, which Capra used in every film he made starting with "You Can't Take it With You" in 1938). 

I learned these factoids this morning, and they make me marvel ... but it was the beautiful and steady build-up of details last night that left me ... as usual when I watch this movie, in tears ...

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

Slow Cooker

Today it will be not turkey, ham or chicken ...  but beef. Beef bourguignon, to be exact. An old crock pot recipe, a meal started in the wee hours to be served 10 hours later.

I wish there were a slow cooker setting for life, a way to slice and dice early, set the dial on "low" and let simmer all the thoughts, happenings, talks, tears and laughter of a year. 

Because that's what I'm wanting now. To digest what has happened. 

Every year is like that,

but this one...

more than others. 

Origin Story

After reading Sapiens a few months ago, I was looking for another "big" book. I've found one in Origin Story by David Christian.

The book is what is called "big history," that is, not just the history of our country or of the world, but of the universe itself. It's a story that could only recently have been told, due to discoveries about the universe and its beginnings made within the last few decades.

Origin Story starts with the big bang (threshold 1) and is organized around it and the eight thresholds that follow. Humans don't even enter the picture till threshold 6, which was 200,000 years ago. Above all, then, this book puts us in our puny little place.

But it is also written with great reverence for human life, and awe at its development. There was never a guarantee that human beings would emerge from this ball of swirling elements, but somehow we did. Here's one of my favorite passages from the book: 

The spooky thing about life is that, though the inside of each cell looks like pandemonium—a sort of mud-wrestling contest involving a million molecules—whole cells give the impression of acting with purpose. Something inside each cell seems to drive it, as if it were working its way through a to-do list. The to-do list is simple: (1) stay alive despite entropy and unpredictable surroundings; and (2) make copies of myself that can do the same thing. And so on from cell to cell, and generation to generation. Here, in the seeking out of some outcomes and the avoidance of others, are the origins of desire, caring, purpose, ethics, even love. 

Bouncing Back

It was dark 15 minutes ago, at 7:30 a.m. Now, at 7:57, a wan winter light is finally seeping through the window blinds. But this is fine. I'll take it. Because from here on, we're getting lighter.

Reaching the Winter Solstice is like touching the bottom of the pool in 10-feet water. Slight scary and other-worldly—but also buoyant. Touch the bottom firmly enough and you will bounce back, all the way to the surface, where life is how it's supposed to be.

For me, it's supposed to be summer. This doesn't mean I want to live in a place of eternal sunshine. But it does mean that normalcy is shorts, t-shirts and long evenings. Strangely enough, we may just have some of this today, as the temperature hits a freakish 65.

It may almost feel like Summer Solstice. But the early darkness will give it away.

Holiday Time

By December 20 we are deep into Christmas territory. These are days shaped before I had the knowledge to shape them. Days that lasted years when I was a young girl—and that never seemed long enough when I was a young mother.

Now they vanish quickly like the other days. Another work day, check. Another run to the store, to the mall, to the post office. Check, check, check.

How do we get back to the slow times?

Holidays offer promise. They can be fluid and what we make of them. They aren't bound by the rules of typical time passage. I am holding out hope for them—as I do every year.

Wrap On

The wrapping station has moved downstairs this year. No more bending over a bed or spreading the paper on the floor. I've (mostly) cleared the table behind the couch and will wrap at waist height with a Christmas-tree view.

So far, only a few gifts done ... but looking forward to more soon.

Every year I remind myself that the days before Christmas are the best, that as much as I try to enjoy the week between, there's often an anti-climax about it that requires pushing through.

This requires a two-fold approach: enjoy this time as much as possible ... and the days to follow, also.

Hmmm ... sounds familiar.

Lighting Our Way

Last night, Copper and I took a walk after work. I slipped on my reflective vest and we trotted off into the dark evening. It was chilly but not frigid, and Christmas lights made our way much brighter than it would have been otherwise.

Each year I need these lights even more, need their candles in the darkness, their collective fist shaken at the void.

I have my favorites—the classic white-bulbed colonial with the graceful fir swag, the spotlit front door with the fruit-studded wreath, the house with lights around the entire perimeter of the backyard. That house also has a star perched high on its chimney.

I wonder if the people who live there ask themselves, "Do we really want to do this again?" It must be a lot of work, tacking up hundreds of feet of lights. But every year they do it anyway. I hope they know that their lights, their effort, lifts the heart of this pilgrim, and, I imagine, the hearts of others, too.

(Pictured above: outdoor lights of a different sort.) 

Deluge!

This weekend the Washington, D.C., region broke a 130-year-old record: It became the rainiest year ever here, with 63.62 inches compared with 61.33 inches from 1889. (The record-keeping started in 1871.) And who's to say we couldn't pick up an inch or two more before it's all over. We have two weeks left, after all.

There were flooded roads throughout the region, including one of the two that leads to my neighborhood, with yellow caution tape strung across the intersection at the top of the hill.

As if that wasn't enough, we also experienced the greatest three-day winter rainstorm ever: 3.44 inches from late Friday through late Sunday. It wasn't a weekend to go caroling or drive around and look at the holiday light displays.

In fact, it was mostly a weekend to stay inside, sleep, decorate, cook and write Christmas cards. Or at least that's how I chose to spend it.

Now that the workweek has begun, we have a clear day with a splendid sunrise. It's been that kind of year.

Battle of the Blues

Putting up a suet block makes me feel a little like the teenager with a private-entrance basement and hands-off parents. Yeah, everyone parties at your house ... but it isn't because of your sparkling personality.

So yes, the birds are flocking to my deck, but it seems like cheating how we lured them here. On the other hand, bird-beggars can't be choosers, so I've devoted a few minutes of my morning to observing the drama unfolding outside my window.

I first spotted the downy woodpeckers, who cling to railings and politely wait their turn at the suet block. I love their jaunty red heads and their ability to queue.

The bluebirds aren't so patient. A flock of them must have moved into the area this morning, and they're hungry. They've been flashing their brilliant tail feathers and just generally entrancing me since I saw them.

Unfortunately, they have rivals at the feeder. A band of bluejays are guarding the block, wielding their considerable bulk in a futile effort to keep their fellow blue birds away.

Though the jays are larger, the bluebirds are more nimble. They can contort their little bodies (showing off their lovely orange breasts) any which way to get at the suet. The bluejays, on the other hand, are hampered by size. Yes, they're big and loud, but the bluebirds are making out like bandits. I'm pulling for them.

To Long Bridge and Back

I finally hit the neighborhood streets yesterday for my first fast walk in almost two weeks. In part it was the trip that made walking time scarce  ... but this time of year it's also lack of light.

As we approach the shortest day, I look for times to slip away and pound the pavement. When I work at home, I can work in a stretch at lunch time, but when I'm at the office, it's a quick walk to Long Bridge Park and back.

It's actually a pleasant stroll. Not enough time to work up a full head of steam, but enough to stretch the legs and clear the head.

This time of year the sidewalk is often empty, especially if the temps are below 40 and there's a brisk wind.

And with Bach in my ears and a pile of work waiting back at my desk, I make the minutes count.

To Long Bridge and back. It'll do.

What Remains

It's no secret that I love to travel. What's becoming increasingly clear to me, though, is travel's long-term dividends. Even trips that seem difficult at the time pay off in the strangest of ways.

I'm thinking of my first trip for Winrock, an around-the-world extravaganza with a prima donna videographer. Even though there were moments I'd like to forget — being told we'd not be let into Indonesia unless we ponied over $5,000 U.S., for instance, a "fee" that the prima donna videographer negotiated down from $1,500 (proving that prima donna videographers are good for something, besides shooting beautiful videos).

What I remember from Indonesia, though, is the beauty of Sumba, the smiles of the schoolchildren there, the bumpy road to Kataka School and a late-night swim in a humongous Jakarta hotel pool.

These details are all wrapped up with the sights and sounds and smells of that country, with its crazy traffic and its friendly people. They are a part of me now, just as the red clay roads and rocky peaks and singing school children of Malawi are.

I'm one grateful lady.

Rainy Season?

Rainy seasons have been arriving later in Malawi. I was prepared for torrents, but apart from a couple of downpours (one with hail and thunder), it was sunny and beautiful the whole time I was there. This was good for traveling but not so good for the crops that Malawians need to stay alive.

The maize they grind into flour that becomes nsima, a thickened porridge served with chambo, a popular fish from Lake Malawi. The tobacco that's just being transplanted now.

As I waited to board the plane on Saturday, dark storm clouds gathered and lightening flashed in the distance. Not auspicious flying weather — but a good sign for the parched ground and empty rain barrels. 

I just checked the forecast: rain is predicted every day from now till Christmas. I'm imagining the red clay soil drenched and drinking. I'm imagining the land greening and exhaling. I'm imagining the end (at least this year) of a parched Malawi. 

A Working Beach

My one-week trip to Malawi was so packed with experiences that some of them are bound to overflow into the week that follows ... and beyond. So as I sit here in front of the Christmas tree with Copper curled beside me, I think about the walk I took on the beach Saturday.

Lake Malawi is ocean-like in its long beaches, and I walked as far down as I could in one direction and almost as far as I could in the other. It was a "working beach" with only a few tourists. I saw fishermen mending their nets and women washing their clothes. I saw children carrying bowls of silvery sardines for sale. I'm squeamish about dead fish but these were beauties.

This hour-long walk Saturday was some of the only free daylight time I had during the trip, not counting the lovely hours staring out the car window at scenery as we drove from village to village. But it was so full of sights and sounds and activity that it sent me home with (almost!) a skip in my step.

A Night at the Lake

I leave Malawi today after a quick and jammed-pack trip. During the last five days I've interviewed school children, teachers and a village chief.  I've listened as staff members outlined their programs and families shared their dreams.

I've seen women knead clay and shape it into cookstoves that will provide them an income for the first time in their lives. ... children act out the perils of child labor with plays and dance ... tender new corn and tobacco plants in red soil with craggy mountains in the background ... and everywhere the energy and drive of a country full of young people.

I'm ending this trip on the humid shores of Lake Malawi, which consumes more than a third of the country's area. Tomorrow we drive back to the airport in the capital city of Lilongwe.

I'll take home what I often do from these travels — the knowledge that the world is a big place and there is more under the sun that we can possibly imagine. It's heartening to me, this knowledge. It brightens my days.

A Walker in Malawi

I haven't walked much in Malawi. There hasn't been time. But as I've bumped along unpaved roads and zoomed along paved ones (in one memorable trip catching up with the Malawian president's motorcade and pretending we were part of it), I've seen many people walking.

Walking in Malawi isn't done for one's health. It is done simply to get from one place to another. It's riding shank's mare, using one's legs for transport.

Not to in any way glamorize the poverty here, nor go back to a time when most travel was foot travel, it still does my heart good to see these peopled roads. They aren't just ribbons of vacant asphalt as far as the eye can see; they are alive and vibrant.

Today we drove through some of the most dramatic scenery I've ever seen, the southern end of the Riff Valley, with majestic views that went on forever. But the best moments were when we strolled down the road from a cookstove demonstration to see a woman's poultry business.  It was just a few steps, but it made me feel, for a moment, like a walker in Malawi.

Counterclockwise

Years ago, a friend who had visited South Africa told me that she was amazed to notice that water draining out of a sink there rotated in the opposite direction of the way it did at home.

This odd factoid has stuck with me through the years, so finding myself in the southern hemisphere, I decided to check it out. And yes indeed, the water does seem to be draining in a counterclockwise direction, the opposite of the way it flows at home.

Still, I thought maybe this was a fluke, so like any modern person who occasionally has access to the Internet, I googled it. Turns out, this question is one of scientific debate. While water should flow counterclockwise in the south and clockwise in the north (a phenomenon known as the Coriolis force), the direction is due more to the configuration of the sink than anything else.

In other words, perhaps I observed the Coriolis force ... and perhaps I did not.

A Day for Singing

We could hear the singing before we parked the car. The women of Chabula were greeting us in song. Their voices harmonized as they clapped in rhythm.

It was a day for singing. Later, inside Chabula's early childcare center, the teacher led his students in English recitations: the days of the week and the months of the year — followed by a rousing rendition of "If You're Happy and You Know It" in Chichewa.

Later in the day, as we conducted video interviews of anti-child-labor club members, once again I heard the sound of voices singing. It was a choir, practicing for a concert. Their harmonies will likely be caught on some of our audio recordings.  But if they're not, I have them where I need them, right up in the old noggin.

Sunset in Malawi

Last night, which seems like a week ago already, I snapped this shot of the sun setting behind some exotic foliage.

Tonight I'm in another town, another district, but I'm still holding this memory. It was a peaceful stroll before dinner, and there were insect noises and frogs croaking.

Most of all, there was this southern light, here south of the equator. It's different somehow, more brilliant, lit from within. I'm glad I was there to see it.

In the Field

This was one of those days when most of what I saw of this fascinating new country was through the window of a car. Work trips are often like that. And you know what? I'll take it!

Today was one of two days we'll spend in the capital city, Lilongwe. Tomorrow through Thursday we will be "in the field" — although all of this seems like "in the field" to me since I usually work in Arlington, Virginia.

But "in the field" also means seeing the project's work close up, and that's what makes these trips so valuable. Instead of just writing or editing stories about vegetable production groups or village savings and loans, I will actually be experiencing them first-hand, meeting the people whose lives are being changed.

In the field? Bring it on.

(Above: One of the sights I saw out my window today. You're never so far out in the field that the colonel can't find you.)

Warm Heart

Malawi is known as the "warm heart of Africa," and has so far has lived up to its name. The people are friendly and the weather is hot and muggy. The rainy season has begun, and as I write these words the storm that was brewing in the distance is now pounding the Mafumu Lodge in Lilongwe, where I just got settled.

Even on the 30-minute drive from the airport, the scenery didn't disappoint. The plains stretch out for miles with jagged-edge mountains rising from them. Trees are sparse and twisted in that way that says "Africa" to me. Women tote loads on their heads, men ride bicycles, children run barefoot along the road.

There is that great jumbling together of people and place that happens when you travel, the awareness, even in my sleep-starved brain, that the world is so much bigger than my little corner of it.

Malawi-Bound

Last night wasn't a long one for me, hemmed in on both sides by packing and writing and preparing for eight days away. But that's OK, I tell myself, since I'm about to be on Malawi Time, which is seven hours ahead of us.

Until a few weeks ago I wasn't entirely sure where Malawi was. I knew it was in southeastern Africa, but that's about all. Now I know it's bounded by Tanzania, Moazambique and Zambia; is dominated by Lake Malawi and has just commenced its rainy season.

Winrock has a wonderful project there, working to curtail child labor, which is higher in Malawi than most other places in the world. Thirty-eight percent of children are engaged in it, largely in the tobacco fields.

I will be traveling throughout the country, meeting students, teachers and others who are fighting to change this. One of them is Leonard, who was so inspired by the anti child-labor club at his school that he coaxed his friends' parents into sending their children back to school.

It's at moments like these, when I'm nervous about leaving my home and family, that I remind myself of the people I'm about to meet and the sights I'm about to see, God willing. And then I realize, all over again, how privileged I am to do what I do, how grateful I am to be able to see the world in this way.

(Look closely at the picture above. That's an elephant, a photo taken on my last trip to Africa, to visit Suzanne and Appolinaire in Benin in 2015.)