The Shot

In the end it's no more than a pinprick, but into it has gone the world's hope and desperation — the former more than the latter, I believe, but you never know. 

The second will come four weeks from now, and then ... what? A sort of freedom, to be sure. But still no old life as we know it. 

Maybe in time, when enough of us have had what I was lucky enough to get yesterday, and that due not just to science and ingenuity but also to the kindness of a friend, who alerted me to the arrival of vaccines in a hospital where I had not checked for them. 

It was a longer drive than I would have liked ... but it was worth it. 

Timbers Sighing

The wind came barreling in from the west last night, and as usual in this house, it's quite a noisy experience. It's not just the wind itself, howling and yawping (that latter word courtesy of a book I'm reading about the poet Walt Whitman); it's the way these four walls respond to it.

The bamboo (rid of Monday's ice) scratches the siding, and the sound this leaves in its wake makes me think of an old-fashioned sailing ship. There is that same sense of being at the mercy of the elements, of the very timbers sighing. 

To counteract these harsh noises, though, there is also the purring of the furnace. The colder the night, the more often it's on, of course, and in it, there is the promise of warmth and safety and civilization.

Pilot Light

Yesterday would be the best day of the week, the weather folks said. Work and freezing rain had kept me inside the last day two days, so I wasn't taking any chances. Into the outside I went, all parka-ed and gloved. 

The wind that has been picking up steam for the last 12 hours was only getting started then, so I could make my way along the usual loop, up and down the neighborhood's main street.  Still, it felt colder than it should have felt.

We've come to that point in the winter when my blood feels thinned out by shivering. So much of it is a mental game. Not the cold itself — I know there are actual numbers involved there — but how I approach it. 

Looseness is key, not tensing the muscles, not resisting the chill as much as moving through it like the human stove that I, that all of us, can be. But sometimes, yesterday for example, it feels as if my pilot light has gone out. 

By Armchair to Cambodia

We're closing in on the end of the longest month. Outside, the pandemic rages and borders are closing. Time for some armchair travel.

Two years ago I was preparing for a trip to Cambodia. I had yet to see moonlight on the Mekong or sip coconut milk from a straw. I had yet to visit Angkor Wat or Ta Prohm or Bayon. I had yet to meet Bunthan and Dilen and Johnny, the people I traveled with in country. 

But soon I would ride the roads with them. I would learn that Johnny was about to leave his job as driver and go into real estate (in fact, ours was his last trip). I would learn to count on Bunthan's excellent translation and Dilen's knack for noticing what others missed. 

I would also meet the people my organization serves: brave women and men who had known far more of life's difficulties than triumphs. But still, they were building better lives, and we were there to celebrate them.

Armchair travel is comfortable, yes, but ah, I miss the real thing!

Stop Time

The rain fell and froze last night, and now the bamboo is bowing under the weight of it. Poor bamboo! It's a nuisance in so many ways, but it forms a lovely screen for the deck, so I hope the day warms fast enough to free the gangly plant before it snaps.

Ice storms lack the beauty of snowfalls. They hold within themselves the hard edges of winter and none of its softness. 

Still, there is beauty in the glinting and there is wonder in the way droplets are trapped in poses they had hours ago. Ice stops time in its tracks. 

Brush Strokes

A bit of painting over the weekend has me thinking about brush strokes, about the rhythm and the touch of them, the way you angle the brush to feather the strokes. 

I paint as little as possible, so the arm is rusty, but, like riding a bicycle, it comes back quickly. 

In painting, as in life, you must be both tough and gentle. You must know how much pressure to apply and when. Push too hard and the paint splatters, too lightly and there's no coverage.

Painting is also comparable to life in this fact — that by the time you get the hang of it, it's time to stop. 

Benediction

Who can say why it happens? The wind howls but seems dignified in its cry. A bank of clouds in the west pushes morning light into unexpected corners of the sky. Dawn purples the east and the rest of the firmament follows suit. It is strange but wonderful.

There is more, of course: the content of my dreams, already faded. The tang of the air. The promise of sweet, milky tea. Knowing that if I look out the back window at 10 I may see a fat red fox trotting across the yard. 

Whatever the elements I enjoy the result: the morning as benediction. 

Flags Flying

The inaugural festivities had already begun on Wednesday when I realized I had not hung our little flag. I stopped what I was doing (exercising on the elliptical), grabbed the flag and ran outside to the mailbox with it, where it proudly "flew" for the rest of the day.

It was not alone. Down on the National Mall, a "field of flags," almost 200,000 of them, stood in for the people who would usually be there, waving their own flags. 

Wednesday was windy, a good day for flying flags. Their rippling made them look alive, the embodiment of all the hope and promise of a new era. 

(The flags seen from space, courtesy Planet Labs Inc.)

Amplified

It's been a happy coincidence that along with all the inaugural activities and excitement this week I've also been listening to the soundtrack of "Hamilton." Since that Broadway musical has long since moved from smash-hit to iconic status, I feel like one of the last people to the parade ... but hey, at least I made it!

To walk, dance and bounce to songs like "Satisfied," "My Shot" and "You'll Be Back" is to be reminded of all that this great country has to offer — the creativity, the humor, the jumble of life all packed into two-and-a-half-plus hours. 

But it was the four years ahead that was mostly on my (and most everyone else's) mind yesterday. There was the call for unity and sacrifice that I hoped Biden would make. There were stirring marches and anthems and invocations. There was President Biden saying, "We have never ever ever ever failed when we have acted together," to which late-night host Stephen Colbert later joked, "Someone clearly never saw the "Cats" movie.

But, kidding aside (and it feels luxurious to be silly), yesterday's big happening was a four-Kleenex event for me, unexpectedly moving — and listening to "Hamilton" just amplified it. 

A New Beginning

It's cold in Washington, D.C., today, the kind of cold that befits an inauguration. The chill seriousness of a new beginning. I woke up early, feeling a thrill of excitement. It's a big day for this tired, battered country. 

Yes, we are divided, more than ever in my lifetime. We are hurting and angry, feeling like the bad news will never end. We are justifiably nervous about laying all this on the shoulders of a 78-year-old man. 

But it's not just his shoulders that will bear the burden. I hope he will call on all of us to share it with him. 

One speech will not heal the nation — nor will one administration. It took us years to get to this point, and it will take us years to move past it. But at least, today, we can begin.

The Newcomer

A walk in Reston yesterday, parking in my new spot, taking the trail that starts at the recycling bins (lovely!) but picks up in attractiveness from there. It's a great find, this trail, because it begins so close to my house and connects with long favored paved paths. 

I'm still learning about this trail in winter, marveling at just how close the houses are, discovering one of those little free libraries along the way and finding a route with a slight rise in the middle (perfect for upping my heart rate).  

There's a bounty to seasonal openness — to see far ahead, to spot the flash of a robin in the holly, to feel for a moment that expansiveness winter offers. 

It's plain this will become a favorite, part of the deck I choose from when deciding which strip of asphalt to amble. I'm always glad to welcome another.

Taking Care of Business

Today is a work holiday, which means that it's a Day to Get Things Done. What kind of things? Applying generous electronic gift cards to electronic accounts, for instance. 

I'm famous (or infamous) for letting gift cards go unspent. I imagine many of us are; retailers count on it. But this way, that will be harder to do (if all these pronouns make sense). 

Of course, electronic to-dos aren't the only ones I have today. There are other, more tangible tasks: cleaning and cooking and decluttering ... the endless list. Guess I'd better get to them!

(Detail of a surface that needs dusting ...) 

Two for the Road

When Mom and I traveled to Europe together many years ago, we bought matching sweaters "just in case" it was chilly. We were immediately glad we did. We donned them the first evening, as we listened to an outdoor concert in a chill June drizzle in London, and wore them often throughout the next six weeks as we toured England, Ireland, France, Germany, Austria and Italy. 

We slipped ponchos over them when it was raining and slept under them on overnight train trips. They also came in handy as robes and cushions. We wore them so much that we never wanted to see them again when we got home. 

They've always been sentimental to me, enough that I stuck them in a suitcase and stored them in the attic for years. And that has preserved them, preserved the memories, too. 

20 Years!

I learned early this morning that today is the 20th anniversary of Wikipedia. That I learned so early is noteworthy, I think, a sign of how much I rely on something I once thought was faintly ridiculous. 

A crowd-sourced encyclopedia? What of the scholar laboring in his or her attic (and let's face it, it was usually a "his" back in the day)? What of the World Books lining the shelf? 

Through the years I've learned a little about the standards of Wikipedia, which, though odd, can sometimes be rigorous. Let's just say that if you submit a PR-like entry, they will come after you. 

Plus, I've become lazy. I spent many years doing research in libraries, and I love the older style of knowledge acquisition. But I'll admit, it's pretty amazing to have such a compendium at my fingertips. 

So happy anniversary, Wikipedia! And thank you for your service!

(Photo: Wikipedia! And that's another reason I love them. I can use their photos without fear of copyright infringement.)

Warm and Light

In my quest to be winter-hardy, I've discovered the many virtues of merino wool. I have a couple of merino wool blend "base layers," which in the old days I would have called undershirts, and I'm wearing them now underneath everything: turtlenecks and cardigans and pullovers and sweatshirts. 

The fact that we keep our house temperature in the mid-60s means that I need at least three layers even when inside. When I go for a walk I throw a jacket over the ensemble, cover my ears and hands, and I'm good to go.

The key, I've realized, is warmth without weight. It sounds like an advertisement for pricey athleisure wear — in fact, I'm pretty sure it is — but it actually works. I feel warm with three layers on, providing one of them is my base layer.  And the "weightlessness" means I'm not stuffed like a sausage into my clothes. Warm and still able to bend my arms — what more could I want?

A Dog, a Pig and the Music

It's barely discernible but significant to me that at 5 p.m. there's now enough light to play with Copper in the backyard. He enjoys it when I bounce on the trampoline, and one of the best ways I can think of to wind down the day is to close the computer, run outside and urge him to come with me so that I can watch him trot down the slight rise in the yard: his sturdy little legs, his mouth open with joy — or perhaps because he wants to bite me. 

Last evening I bounced to the last movement of the Saint-Saëns Organ Symphony, which I came to love after seeing the movie "Babe." (The final theme of the symphony is the tune that rallies the little pig.) 

How lovely it is to bounce to that grand sound, looking up at the house, the windows dark in the room where I was just writing, so different from moving through the air, the glorious release of it all. And yet knowing that the experience of bouncing will come most alive for me when I try to get it down on the page. And that involves (you guessed it) ... heading right back into that dark room.

(Photo: Universal Studios/Photofest and the Hollywood Reporter)

 

The Walking Listener

For the last year I've been ambling not always silently and not always with music in my ears but sometimes with words in there too.  Thanks to the gift of Audible, I've walked to novels and meditations and nonfiction explications of our current economic woes. 

One day a neighbor stopped me on the street. I took out my ear buds to hear what she was saying. "You must be listening to a book," she said. 

I wondered how she could tell. Did I have a furrowed brow of concentration? 

She could tell because she does, too. There must be some sort of aura we walking listeners give off that only other walking listeners can see. 

We chatted for a moment before going on our separate ways, at which point I put my ear buds back in and discovered that since I'd forgotten to push pause, the narrator was now several "pages" ahead of where I'd stopped. Just a small problem for the walking listener. 

Free Books: Going Fast

Today, our public library returns to virtual and curbside pickup only. Since summer we've been able to enter our branch (fully masked and separated, of course), to browse the stacks and check out the new fiction and nonfiction sections. We could find our next great read. And often (at least in my case) serendipity was involved. I didn't go hunting for The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel. But there it was, languishing in the new fiction section.

So much do I count on these library visits, that when I heard the news of the closure late Friday, I added another to-do for Saturday: get over to the Chantilly branch and get some books. Apparently, many folks had the same idea. By late morning the parking lot was filling up and people were dashing from building to car, bundles of books under their arms. 

A woman with a clicker monitored our arrival, to keep capacity to Covid rules. She reminded me I could only stay for 30 minutes. That was fine; I only had 10. 

But I made a beeline for the new section, and got right to browsing. There was Patti Smith's Year of the Monkey, a memoir that's been on my list for months. I grabbed John Bolton's The Room Where It Happened, too. It  seems a little passé by now, but I'll give it a try. 

Into my arms went books on artificial intelligence and mindfulness and the works of Walt Whitman. If a topic seemed down my alley at all, it made the cut. 

When I left the library there were five souls waiting to get in. Free books — there's nothing like 'em.

Tossing the 'Bible'

When I think of National Geographic magazine, I think of mountains and mummies and majesty. I think of the Bible, since I've always approached the magazine with reverence, thanks to its plethora of fine photographs and its perfect binding. I also think of George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life." Early in the film, when he's a kid, he boasts that he's been selected for membership in the National Geographic Society. 

Well, I was, too. And I can tell you what it's like decades later, when you don't throw out any of those precious journals, when you don't even let your kids cut them up when they begged you to let them. Instead, you held onto the magazines, thinking they were too beautiful to toss, that somebody would want a complete set someday. A library, a nursing home, someplace.

But in a world where you can't even give away a piano, you certainly can't interest anyone in boxes of National Geographic magazines. In fact, you can't even throw them all away at once; they're too heavy. So we're getting rid of them box by box. It's like slowly peeling off a bandage — a painful process. But in the end, we'll be a little bit freer, a little bit lighter, and these days, that's what it's all about.  

Lopez and Place

I learned earlier this week that the author Barry Lopez died on Christmas Day. I've only read one book by Lopez, but it made quite an an impression. 

Lopez's masterpiece Arctic Dreams is sometimes called a travel book. But as many critics have noted, it's much more than that. "Arctic Dreams is a book about the Arctic North in the way that Moby Dick is a novel about whales," the critic Michiko Kakutani wrote.

For me, Arctic Dreams was one of the first books that awakened an appreciation of writing about place. Since then, I've come to love the words of Annie Dillard, Henry Beston, John Graves, Aldo Leopold and many more. I've come to realize the power of writing about where we are rooted, of paying attention to the trees and animals and vistas that sanctify a city, a seashore, a ranch, a farm, a home. 

Lopez died of complications from prostate cancer, but according to his wife, his ailments intensified after wildfires destroyed his house in Oregon last September. He lost all his original manuscripts and a lifetime of artifacts. Most of all, I thought as I read his obituary ... he lost his place. 

(Photo: Brian Schaller/Wikimedia)

Assault on the Capitol

For 10 years I worked less than half a mile from the U.S. Capitol. On my lunch hour, I often walked around the place. I could have been pulling my hair out over page proofs, but as soon as I left my office on First Street and rounded the corner onto New Jersey Avenue, a calmness would descend upon me. 

It was partly the walking itself, tonic and narcotic that it always is. But it was also the fact that I, a kid from Kentucky, could spend 30 minutes strolling around such an august building and grounds. What people from all over the world traveled to see, I could include in a quick desk break. 

I was thinking of these walks yesterday when an angry mob stormed the Capitol and interrupted the people's business. Like most Americans I watched with a lump in my throat and a sickness in my soul. That our dear country, represented by that building, should be so defiled and shamed! 

While knowing the Capitol may have made me sadder in the short-run, it's brought some comfort as the hours have passed. I've imagined the route often since yesterday: the tall, labeled trees, the broad plaza on the east side, the marble steps, the fine magnolias. 

I walked, therefore I knew, and I knew, therefore I loved. That love is sustaining me now. 

Jammin!

Every year at Christmastime, Mom made a jam cake. It was a recipe from Dad's side of the family, and was passed down with great care. Mom copied the recipe over several times, but she saved the old versions. Reading through them, which I did to make sure I was getting the ingredients right, was like an archaeological dig; there was the same fragility to the oldest artifact.

Once I figured out that the "modern version" (which included purple crayon scribbles, proof of its age) was indeed a fair and true copy, I still had to make the cake, which began, as it did for Mom, with an all-out search for jam with seeds. In my case, the search took me 20 miles away, to a Walmart Super Store in Sterling. (I found this highly ironic since Mom never visited a Walmart; she thought the stores were destroying small-town America — and in this case, as with so much else, she was right.) 

Once the jam was purchased and the other ingredients assembled, I proceeded to make the cake. Mom had always made a very big deal of it, as if she was making a four-tier wedding cake. How hard can it be, I wondered. 

Pretty darn hard, it turns out. There is the sheer muscle involved in stirring the thick batter. There's separating the six eggs, beating the whites till frothy (I was convinced I had botched this part) and pre-mixing certain ingredients (such as vinegar and baking soda) before adding them to the batter. 

By the time I got the cake in the oven, it looked like a small tornado had ripped through the kitchen. But after a tense baking period (I can remember holidays where the jam cake fell — and that was not a pretty sight), the cake emerged more or less intact. I couldn't have been prouder. Now all I had to do ... was frost the thing.

Painted Bunting

Yesterday's paper brought the typical onslaught of bad news, but on the front page of the Metro section was a wondrous story about the rare sighting of a painted bunting. 

It's one of those "lifetime birds" for birders, who flocked to a Maryland park to catch a glimpse of this tiny creature.  With its normal habitat far south of here, the bird's presence represented a once-in-lifetime chance for many to see it. "Magical" is how some of them described it.

Even reading about it was enough to lift my spirits. That a tiny bird could stir up such a ruckus in a town more likely to respond to the latest scandal than to the presence of beauty in our midst is further proof of what we're coming to realize is a silver lining of the pandemic: a greater realization of the beauty and balm of nature. 

All I can add is ... what a great way to start the new year! 

(Photo: Wikimedia)

In and Out

The walk I took yesterday I've taken before in the rain, so it seemed right to embark upon it as mist turned to drizzle. And it was good to see the soggy world close-up, as drops clung to evergreens and puddles formed on the trail.

I remember the first time I walked this way, I got turned around and my return trip included a couple of blocks on the side of a road instead of in the woods. Now the twists and turns are well encoded, enough so that I could take a detour and still find my way back.

Yesterday felt like a day to stay inside — all the more reason to get out.

Filling the Fridge

It has come to my attention that today is Saturday, a day I usually get groceries into the house. It has also come to my attention that I have not completed said grocery expedition in several weeks. Oh, I've run out for powdered sugar and cold cuts. But I've been neglecting the tried-and-true, list-driven expedition.

I kind of dread the trip, if you want to know the truth. It seems too much like work, which I've sworn off these last 10 days. But we're running low on milk, eggs and salad —  things that don't freeze well, you may notice — and you can't live on chocolate cake and Christmas cookies forever.

So here I go, back into a routine. I'm sure it will be fine once I get in ... a little like the shock of cold water in a pool, which ultimately refreshes. And even if it isn't, the fridge will be full again.

Imagining 2021

The new year arrived wearing top hat and tails. It landed with a swoop and a glide and an elegant dip. It was Fred Astaire tap-dancing on the ceiling, Gene Kelley singing in the rain and Judy Garland dreaming of somewhere over the rainbow. 

Plans were canceled, isolation strictly enforced, but the American musical was not shut down, or at least not the American musical as imagined by Metro Goldwyn Mayer in the 1974 classic "That's Entertainment." Hosted by a slew of stars (Frank Sinatra, Elizabeth Taylor, Liza Minelli and Jimmy Stewart), there were clips of everyone from Esther Williams to the Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. 

It was a surprisingly apt way to see out an old year and bring in a new one. No, it wasn't realistic. The world depicted was mostly on a sound stage or a backlot. But it was vivid proof of human imagination.  And imagination is looking pretty good these days.