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

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

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!

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

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

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

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.)

Wiki Woods

It has much in common with a wiki site, this woods I walk in; it's the work of many. The invasive plant eradication I mentioned yesterday is part of it. But even the paths themselves are forged and kept alive by many footfalls. Given the amount of undergrowth out there, it wouldn't take long to lose the trail. 

And then there are the bridges, a motley crew if ever there was one: A clutch of bamboo poles, handcrafted spans made from planks and two-by-fours, and then the places where it seems people just laid down a few pieces of lumber. 

Some of the bridges are for crossing Little Difficult Run, which meanders through the woods, steep-banked in spots. But others are for navigating the hidden springs and muddy parts of the trail. All of them necessary. All of them welcome. 

It takes a village to make a woods walk. 

Protecting the Forest

I'd resisted for days, but today I gave in. I reached down and pulled up a few garlic mustard plants, an edible but invasive species I've learned of recently, mostly from seeing pulled and trampled stems on the trail. 

It's tall with a few delicate white flowers. At first, I admired it. But then I learned how it can dominate the ground cover in a forest, driving out the natives.

Walks are when I think and listen to music, when ideas percolate. I don't want to wear garden gloves and trudge through the woods with a bucket and spade. But these plants pull up so easily that I hardly broke my stride getting rid of them.  If everyone pulled up a few stalks, there would be no more garlic mustard in our woods.

In the end, it's elemental: When we notice, we care. And when we care, we protect. 

(Photo: Wikimedia)

Greening

When I walk through the woods these days, or even when I look out the window from my upstairs office, the world I see is a symphony of green.

It's happened so quickly, this greening. Less than two weeks ago, the forest was still a winter one, especially given that many of the early flowering trees are the ones people plant in their yards not the ones that grow naturally on their own. 

But whether cultivated or wild, the world is greening, and I wish I could hold onto it this way. 

Last Meal

On Sunday the Octave of Easter ended, though the season of Easter will last until Pentecost. But for me the celebration truly came to an end when I ate the last turkey sandwich made from Easter dinner leftovers. 

Sometimes I forgo the turkey on Easter, serving only ham along with the deviled eggs, asparagus, ambrosia salad and potatoes au gratin. But this year's crowd required reinforcements. I was happy to oblige with a 23-pound bird. That's a lot of turkey sandwiches — and I have relished every one.

You have to understand that if I were offered a last meal, I wouldn't hesitate. It would be a turkey sandwich made from all white meat, thinly sliced, on white bread (which I usually avoid) and mayonnaise (ditto). If I'm feeling virtuous I garnish with lettuce ... but I usually don't feel virtuous. 

I would illustrate this post with a picture of a turkey sandwich, but alas, the turkey sandwiches are gone. A glass of iced tea will have to do. It, of course, would be the last beverage. 

Human Content

At the end of its segment on artificial intelligence last night, CBS's "60 Minutes" included a disclaimer it never has before. "The preceding was created with 100-percent human content."

This kicker was the perfect conclusion to a jaw-dropping report on Bard, the new chatbot released by Google. Interviews with the Google CEO and other members of the company revealed a team of humans who seem genuinely concerned about the implications of this earth-shaking new technology. But even they seem to be struggling with what they have created. 

These bots are not sentient beings, they said, although the content they produce (including a story built on Hemingway's famous six-word novel "For Sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.") make you think that they can. 

These new bots are something of a black box, said Google CEO Sundar Pichai, who brought up the problem of alignment — the divergence between the models we use to create artificial intelligence and the intentions we have while creating them. They teach themselves subjects they weren't programmed to learn. They will take our jobs and create ever-more-hard-to-detect fakes. 

As a student of the human condition (the title of the class I'm taking this semester) I'm thinking about the new technologies we've experienced in recent decades and how we will adapt to this one. Many knowledge workers will lose their jobs and many others will be teaming up with robots on a daily basis. How will we face this new challenge when we can't even keep up with old ones? 

Lots of questions. Not many answers. But of this you can be sure: This post was created with 100-percent human content. 

(Above: a small printing press, vestige of a lost world.) 

Closing the Gate

For years it was the first commandment of outside living in my family. Close the backyard gate! Our frisky Copper dog was, as I've mentioned before, quite the escape artist, and he missed no opportunity to leave the only loving home he had ever known.

As a younger dog, he rushed the doors, both front and garage. Guests entering the house had to slide in quickly before he barreled past them. 

But at least a couple of times he found his way out of the fenced backyard into the great beyond.  One time he moseyed under the deck and squeezed through an opening we never thought could accommodate him. I found him calmly sniffing the hedges near the front stoop. 

His most likely point of departure, though, was through the backyard gate, which is tricky to latch and was prone to being left open by the meter-reading man and other folks. We lived in fear that we'd forget to check, let him out the backdoor and that would be the end of it. Copper, of course, had no fear of cars.

This week I've walked through the backyard gate dozens of times. And every time, not just out of habit but out of reverence, I've made sure it's closed behind me. 

"Run Towards the Danger"

I just finished reading Sarah Polley's memoir Run Towards the Danger: Confrontations with a Body of Memory. It's not a book I'd heard about before, but a dear friend loaned it to me, put it in my hands, said it was written by the screenwriter of "Women Talking" and I would love it.

At first, I thought it would be a replay of "Women Talking," which I enjoyed but wasn't sure I wanted to relive.  Then, a few pages in, I almost put it down because the opening essay is about Polley's scoliosis, a condition that runs in our family and about which I have a fair amount of guilt. 

But it is not about "Women Talking" and I pressed on through the scoliosis parts, and less than two weeks later I finished the book, wanting more. 

Honesty is endearing, and Sarah Polley is not only scrupulously honest, but honestly funny, even when she's describing sexual abuse, placenta previa and a concussion. The book's title and theme, "run towards the danger," come from her neurologist, who not only heals her brain but gives her a motto to live by — don't shy away from what frightens you, embrace it instead. Not a bad message for this (or perhaps any) stage of life. So here's to books loaned by friends — and friends who loan books. Sometimes they know what you need better than you do. 

(It's telling I had to hunt for a photo to illustrate this post. Are the "Exorcist Stairs" as close as I come to danger?) 

Hybrid Walks

Here in the suburbs we have few bears, and no lions or tigers.  But we do have automobiles.

This morning, lured on by the buoyancy of the air and the radiance of the light, I turned right on a narrow road and (staying off it for the most part) made a dash on foot to the safety of a path. I was happy when I tucked into my usual route, because the road is hilly and cars travel fast along it.

On the way home, I thought about the walkability quotient of my neighborhood and how greatly it has improved since I've come to know the shortcuts and the cut-throughs, many of them woodland trails. 

The best routes around here are the hybrid walks, part paved, part pounded. They are the safest ways, and in some cases the only ways, to get where you're going. 

 

Kwanzan Up Close

The Kwanzan cherry had barely begun to leaf this time last week. But the warm temperatures of early April have sent it into overdrive. 

I'm spending some time this morning just looking at the tree, observing how the big-fisted flowers bend its branches to earth. 

The Kwanzan is not as ethereal as the Yoshino cherry, which typically blooms a few weeks earlier. It's an earthier, later blossom.  It's best photographed up close, I think, against a bright blue sky.

Hammock Season

It's the first post of the hammock season, which starts early this year. I rock sideways on the contraption, using it more as a rocking chair than a chaise lounge.

I perch above a bumper crop of wood poppies and within sight of several spectacular azaleas. To my right is a lilac bush that seems likely to produce more blooms than ever this year, more blooms than ever being a relative term, of course. I'm hoping to crack the double digits. 

The poplar above me is barely leafing. Ferns are unfurling. A breeze ruffles the foliage and rings the wind chimes. Yesterday, there were 26 people in this yard. Today, only me. It's a mellow Easter Monday. Let's hope I can stay awake long enough to do some homework. 

Time for Talking

Thinking about time this morning, about the way it gets parceled out, about its being, in the end, the only true currency. Since time passes more quickly as we age, that should mean our wallets are slimmer, too. 

Yet mine can feel so full! Not everyday, of course, but on days I spend with dear family and friends. Maybe it's because a good talk puts me in the eternal present, when time-passed and time-yet-to-come slip away and all that matters is the time-that-is, the words and the moment. 

Which means that having as many good talks as possible is a worthy goal. Making (yes!) time for them, enjoying them, and afterwords, savoring their insights and their joy.

Stop Time?

Speaking of buttercups ... spring unspooled slowly through the month of March. Daffodils that bloomed in late February were still with us this time last week. 

But in the last few days the season hit fast forward. Our dogwood and Kwanzan cherry were barely leafing out on Monday; now they're in full flower. Temperatures above 85 degrees will do that to a plant.

I'm hoping that today's burst of cool air has stopped time enough to preserve "nature's first green," which is gold. It's been gold for weeks now. I hope, against all evidence to the contrary, that it will stay. 

(A hyacinth blooms in February.)

Follow the Yellow-Flower Road

This is what happens when I walk. I can be thinking some perfectly sane and responsible thoughts and then a scene like this will trigger the ear worm. For the rest of the walk, I hear the high-pitched voices: "Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road."

Only I substitute "flower" for brick.

Because, really, isn't that what you think when you see these bright buttercups, so plentiful this year? Maybe not. But if it's folly, it's a folly that flows from a flower, so all is forgiven.

I did follow the yellow-flower road, and it gave me a good workout. 

An Encounter

An early walk this morning, sun smoldering orange on the horizon, first birds clearing their throats, air soft on my skin. Back home, I bounce and stretch on the trampoline. When the fox spots me, I'm doing the bird dog exercise, so I'm on all fours just as she is. We are maybe 20 feet apart. 

A fox's face is doglike, though the eyes are more wary than soulful. The animal takes my measure just as I take hers. 

I wish we could hold the gaze longer than we do, but she's smart. She knows better than to linger long with someone 10 times her size. So she scampers off to try an alternative route to her prey. And I go back to my exercise. Just another morning in the suburbs. 

Table for Four

When I drove there Saturday in the pouring rain, it seemed as if the place was an extension of Washington's Rock Creek Park. And in a way it is. Hillwood, the home of Marjorie Merriweather Post, is perched on a hilltop in the Forest Hills section of northwest D.C. It might as well be in England or France, though, with the formal gardens and the extensive collection of European art, furnishings and tapestries. 

By the time my friend and I finished lunch, the rain had stopped, the sky was blue and the just-dowsed hyacinths scented the walk we took around the garden. Inside the house were treasures from Post's collection, including Faberge eggs and a large collection of Russian art. 

And then there was this breakfast room. Post's table was always set for four, even if she dined alone. It's a big waste of plates and silverware, of course, but I kind of like the idea. 

Semana Santa

It's Holy Week and I'm imagining I'm back in Sevilla, where Semana Santa is a very big deal. This is what I love best about traveling. That even though I must leave the place, the place never leaves me. It stays in the angle of the light, the heat of the day rising up off the paving stones, the expressions of the faithful waiting patiently for the procession.

The taste of Semana Santa that we experienced in last June's Corpus Christi celebration is what I'm remembering, and I'm multiplying it by, oh, a hundred at least. The religious floats are much larger, the crowds much denser, the people more serious and pious than they were last summer (and they were seriously pious then). 

It's the holiest week of the year for Catholics, and in Sevilla, that's abundantly clear.

Foolish or Fake?

It's April 2, and having shared no foolery yesterday I went in search of some today. I looked online and found a few famous pranks from history. 

On April 1, 1957, the BBC aired a segment on the great spaghetti harvest happening in the Ticino region of Switzerland, near the Italian border. There was footage of farmers "harvesting" the spaghetti and then sitting down to eat it al fresco (and maybe al dente, too). Some viewers were convinced enough that they called the network to ask how they could grow their own spaghetti at home. 

More recent April 1st "new product" announcements include Velveeta skincare, Cauliflower Peeps and Teletubbies cryptocurrency. And then there's this year's "launch" of Harry and Meghan's new video game "Mexit: The Call of Duke-y," in which the couple must surmount obstacles on their way to California. 

My impression in general, however, is that pranks aren't what they used to be. In a world of fake news, April Fools' Day is redundant. 

(Spaghetti "harvest" photo courtesy Wikipedia.)