That Kind of Year

A birthday of note this year, but aren't they all? Isn't every one of them precious proof that we live another day?

This morning I woke up to greetings from family and friends, dear ones I've known for decades. What richness! What a privilege to reach this, "the furthest exploratory tip of this my present bewildering age," in the words of Annie Dillard. Even if it's bewildering, maybe even because it's bewildering.

I think of Kathy, Cathy and Gerry, good friends taken too soon. With their lives and the lives of all the people I love in mind, gratitude is the only emotion allowed on this day. But truth to tell, I would probably be feeling it anyway. It's that kind of morning, that kind of month, that kind of year. 

Bird Song

It's a sunny afternoon on the deck as hummingbirds buzz the feeders, sparrows chirp and cardinals peep. In the distance, I hear a hawk cry and a bluebird squawk.  

Turns out, all this bird listening is good for my mental health, according to two different studies published in Scientific Reports, summarized in a Washington Post article published today. 

I'm not surprised. Hearing birdsong is one of the reasons I love walking and being outside in general. Turns out I'm not alone. Researchers asked 1,300 participants to answer questions about their environment and well-being through an app called Urban Mind. They found a strong correlation between hearing or seeing birds and a positive state of mind. Another study found that listening to six-minute audio clips of birdsong reduced anxiety and depression. 

According to this, I should always be bopping around with a smile on my face because in addition to hearing outside birds, I also hear inside ones, Alfie and Toby, the parakeets who grace our house with their chatter and whose racket often prompts callers to ask, "Do you have birds?" 

Yes, I always say, yes, I do, and they're wonderful. 

(Alfie and the late, great Bart.)

Memorial Day Movie

I briefly tried watching the National Memorial Day concert last evening before switching to the Memorial Day Marathon on Turner Classic Movies, where I found a film I'd never heard of called "Hell to Eternity."

This 1960 movie tells the true story of Guy Gabaldon, a Marine who was raised by a Japanese family and who singlehandedly and peacefully took 1,500 prisoners on Saipan, aided by the Japanese language he learned as a child. 

It's a rare film that depicts the incarceration of Japanese Americans in internment camps during the war and features Japanese actors playing Japanese characters. Also, while there are plenty of combat scenes, the movie ultimately glorifies not the fighting but our common humanity. 

Not a bad way to see in Memorial Day 2023. 

(From left, actor Jeffrey Hunter, the real Guy Gabaldon, and actor David Janssen from the set of the film "Hell to Eternity," courtesy TCM.)

On the Fence

A family in the Phinney Ridge neighborhood of Seattle has come up with a whimsical way to depict the immensity of space: they've turned their wooden fence into the solar system. 

On these planks you'll see the sun, Mercury, Venus, Mars and Earth plus our moon. Far enough down the block that my phone camera couldn't capture them in one shot are Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. 

A final panel reads "Where is Pluto? Pluto would be across our neighbor's driveway," followed by a discussion of Pluto's status as dwarf planet, a fact about which some scientists are "on the fence." 😊

It's not the sort of thing I'm used to seeing on my neighborhood walks. But isn't that point of travel — to take us away and shake us up and help us see our world, even our universe, with fresh eyes? 

Night Flight

We left Seattle for Virginia at an hour I consider normal for overseas flights, that is, almost midnight. But then we had almost as far to go, give or take a few hundred miles

Instead of crossing an ocean, we traversed a continent. In the dark of night we flew over cities and villages, swamps and high deserts. In a darkened cabin, we covered the distance of this broad land. 

And now, after a few hours of catch-up sleep, I'm sitting where I so often do, at a desk overlooking a green yard, my slice of this planet: home. 

Roses and Rhodies

On our last full day in the Emerald City, roses and rhodies ... 

An arboretum...

A rose garden ...

And to top it off, a dollop of white wisteria.

Ballard Locks

In Seattle, you can't escape the water, nor would you want to. Lake and sound, salt water and fresh, creek and marsh. One of the most fascinating water experiences in the city is to be found at the Ballard Locks, where boats pass from Puget Sound to Lake Union and Lake Washington (or vice versa). 

Locks are one of those technologies of which I have a theoretical understanding but had never seen in action until the other day.The Ballard Locks, I learned, carry more boat traffic than any other locks in the country, so there's a good chance you'll see a ship pass through this engineering marvel. 

To witness a craft at eye level and then, only a few minutes later, see it 25 feet lower ... well, let's just say it reminds me, once again, of the power of showing over telling. 

Unconventional

When I'm here in this western city, I notice the eccentricities, the differences, how the houses assert their individuality. 

Take the Coleman House, for instance. Owned by psychiatrist, author and gardener Brian Coleman, the place is a Victorian dream, cast of warm rich colors with whimsical touches — an owl, a sunflower, a turret with the Latin phrase quo amplius eo amplius ("more beyond plenty") — and set amidst a garden that changes with the seasons.

An article in the Seattle Times tells me that this house is featured in Private Gardens of the Pacific Northwest, edited by ... Brian Coleman, who does not reveal in the book that the house is his own. 

I know the houses of my northern Virginia suburb can't be as unconventional as this one. But they could try a little harder, couldn't they?

 

Magnificent Forest

"You are entering a fragile, ancient forest," the sign read. "Please stay on the trail." So we entered the woods with reverence, walked quietly along the path, and guessed the age of the towering trees. 

To be old growth, a forest must contain trees more than 250 years old. Seattle's Seward Park has them, though many of its specimens are "only" in the 200-year range.  But the Western Hemlocks are dying, the sword fern too.

How to protect them, to understand and prevent their demise? How to keep this "Magnificent Forest," as it's called, as dark, mysterious and magical as it is now? Researchers are working on it. And yesterday, we did our part: we looked, we marveled, we stayed on the trail. 

How the West Was Young

I write this post from the Columbia City neighborhood of Seattle, south of downtown and (from the sound of it) on the flight path to Seatac.

The hosts of this Airbnb have thoughtfully provided a local history book on Rainier Valley, so I've been learning about the history of this place, from early pioneer Isaac Ebey in the 1850s, through waves of settlement, Italians to Africans and more, to the opening of the light rail line in 2009. 

What strikes me about all of this is how recent it is. Not that I exactly live in the midst of antiquities, but compared with the East, the West is ... young. 

(Lake Washington waders in 1905)

Another Word for Travel

We spent much of yesterday in Discovery Park, exploring Capehart Forest, the West Point lighthouse and a steep trail that connects the two. A bald eagle soared above us.

West Point is one of 18 active lighthouses in the state, and the point of land it sits upon has been a gathering spot for thousands of years. As the largest park in a city of vistas, this place offers a stunning array of views to contemplate. 

What an apt name for a place of long history and tradition. Discovery: to be discovered, to find something unexpectedly in the course of a search. Another word for travel.

On Foot to the Sound

Yesterday, the reprise of a walk I remember taking years ago: through Seattle's Carkeek Park to Puget Sound. We started on a trail that my friend Peggy designed and helped bring about. From there we entered a woods so deep, light-filtered and northwestern that I wanted to bottle it and bring it home.

There were meadows and wildflowers and an old orchard. Pipers Creek was our constant companion. 

Shortly before we reached the water, we walked across a high bridge that straddled a railroad track. A freight train was moving through, car after car.  The view took on motion then, and the water glittered in the sun. 

Coast to Coast

As just mentioned, I grew up on car trips. For me, the idea of transcontinental travel is all mixed up with long, dusty drives. 

I may sound like Rip van Winkle, but it will never cease to amaze me that I can wake up on one side of the continent (albeit quite early) and be on the other side before lunch.

I pondered this last night, as I watched the last light of a long day fade to orange, then black.

Endangered Radio

"How long till Tucumcari?" 

"Why is it so hot back here?"

And ... "Can you turn up the radio?"

These aren't my children's comments about long-distance travel; they're my own. Or at least what can I remember of the cross-country travel my brothers and sister and I took as kids. 

We were stuffed into the backseat and nether regions of the old "woody" station wagon and driven more than two thousand miles, from Lexington, Kentucky to Hollywood, California, and other western destinations. The view out our windows was priceless: forests and grasslands, mountain and prairie, red rocks and cactus; the whole continent unfolding before us. And the soundtrack of our travels? AM Radio.

That's going to change soon, according to a report in the Washington Post. Some automakers are already omitting AM Radio from their electric vehicles' dashboards. And Ford is eliminating AM radio entirely.

There have been protests from station owners, first responders, listeners and politicians of all stripes (it's a rare bipartisan issue), saying that the move may spell the end of AM radio entirely. 

I don't listen to much AM radio — until I'm on a long-distance car trip. And then I tune into these staticky stations to catch the weather, oldies and talk. AM stations give you a taste of the places you're driving through.  I'm sorry to hear that, like so much that is local and authentic, they're endangered, too.

Decisions, Decisions

We leave tomorrow for more than a week in Seattle and environs, so the dust is flying. Among the items on my packing list is one that recurs on every packing list: book. The singular is deceptive. Often this means books.

Sometimes I'm dragging school work along.  And I used to pack work reading, which falls into the general category of books. Neither one of those this time.

Today's task is simpler, though not without challenges. Today I need to find a good book to read, as in just read, as in for pleasure. Ideally, it would be a medium-sized paperback. Long enough to last me but light enough to keep my baggage allowance where it needs to be. 

I've dipped into the home library and found House Made of Dawn, by M. Scott Momaday, which I haven't read but have always wanted to. It may come along. Also Crossroads, by Jonathan Franzen, a hefty library book, which I've listened to but not read in hard copy. 

There are still a few hours to think about this. Decisions, decisions. 

(Book packing with help from a young assistant.)

Potential

It's a day for flowers, for corsages and nosegays. And at my house, it's a day to admire the climbing rose, poised to begin its spring show. 

The buds are primed, some have popped, others are ready to.

It's also, then, a day to celebrate potential. For Mom, who always believed in our potential. And for my daughters, whose potential I was privileged to see, treasure and help shape, for all that lies ahead for them. 

Happy 100th!

Today would have been Dad's 100th birthday. He missed it by a little over nine years. I like to think he would have reveled in the day.

A milestone that once seemed impossible to reach is no longer such a feat. I've known a couple of centenarians and a slew of nonagenarians. Dad was briefly one of them, almost 91 when he passed away. 

The last time Dad was at our house, he loosened his tie, grabbed his cane and took to the dance floor. It's a good way to remember him on his birthday ... or any day.

A Benediction

The first thing I notice is the scent. The air is perfumed, mid-May incarnate. Early honeysuckle? I don't think so. Viburnum perhaps?  I inhale as I walk, which supercharges each step. 

The next thing I notice is the mud. It's been only a few days since I last walked in the woods, but it's rained hard since then, and paths that were packed are now spongy, pliable.  My boots leave an impression. 

The stream is gurgling. The forest has greened and expanded with the much-needed moisture. It has moved up and out. It holds me as I walk, sifts its stillness down, a gift, a benediction.  

I Brake For Goslings

It's not just drivers who have to swerve, hit the brakes and, of course, stay on their side of the road. Walkers have similar obligations. 

When I'm hoofing it on the W&OD — a bike/hike trail frequented by walkers and cyclists and yesterday, strangely, by a motorcycle going 60 miles an hour — the key is to avoid sudden changes of "lane." There are signs that remind us of that fact: "Be alert and predictable," they say.

Last week, on a Franklin Farm stroll, my goal was to stay clear of mother goose and her adorable goslings. Luckily, she let me get close enough for a photograph.

The Renegade

As the semester ends, the deconstruction begins. Random print-outs are tossed or tidied. Papers are filed. Library books are gathered and returned to Georgetown.

Since I live nowhere near Georgetown and haven't had class on campus all year (all via Zoom), this is a big deal. I was so proud of myself that I had dropped them off a few days before they were due, combining their return with a trip into D.C. on Saturday.

But yesterday, my bubble was burst. A stray had hidden itself underneath another book on my desk. Luckily, it can be returned ... by mail!

(This wasn't the renegade volume. I remembered to return this one — but only after I removed every sticky from every page.)

Of Roses and Crowns

Over the weekend, a day bracketed by rituals. One ancient, the other "only" 149 years old. 

I woke up at 6 a.m., early enough to catch much of the coronation of King Charles III.  The choirs, the sixth-century prayer book, the procession, the golden carriage. A glimpse into the Middle Ages.

And then, at 6 p.m., the Kentucky Derby, with its come-from-behind, 15-1 shot Mage. More rituals: the call to post, the starting bell, the breathless commentary of the Run for the Roses. 

We measure our lives by rituals and routines, but I've seldom experienced such an oddly juxtaposed and striking pair of them.

(Photo of King Edward's crown courtesy Wikipedia)

My Man

A late post, but I can hardly let the day pass without acknowledging that it's the 190th birthday of the composer Johannes Brahms, who I once described (cringe) as "my man" (see profile).

That may be flippant, but I have always loved Brahms' symphonies, concertos, chamber music and other works. I even try to play some of his piano pieces when I'm feeling confident. 

What caught my eye this evening was this rather studly likeness of Brahms, based on a 3-D render, created by artist Hadi Karimi, who uses 3D modeling programs to recreate artists of the past using photos (if there are any), portraits and death and life masks. 

In the text that accompanied his Brahms creation, Karimi said this project was relatively easy because by the mid-nineteenth century photography was popular enough that there were several taken of Brahms. For this rendition, Karimi pictures the composer in his 30s. Quite a departure from the bearded fellow we usually see. 

(Top photo: Hadi Karimi. Bottom photo: Wikipedia)

Feeling the Pull

Writing and weather has kept me mostly inside for the better part of two weeks, and I'm feeling the loss of woods and sky and birdsong. 

Late yesterday's walk was a reminder of just how much. The bamboo forest. The creekside trail. Everything green and glowing from the rain and chill. A new tree down to clamber over. 

It was a pleasure to tromp through it all. And this morning, as I watch bluejays dart and a fox scamper home, as sunlight pools in the shady yard, I feel the pull of the outdoors again. 

(No, this was not taken in the Virginia woods. It's an Irish robin posing on the isle of Inishmore.)

  

Out of the Zone

One of the most noteworthy things about this new phase of life is discovering how much I must force myself out of my comfort zone. I've always done this to an extent, but I could always count on paid employment to do the rest, especially my last gig.

Now I must make myself do the hard things. What are these "hard things"? Don't laugh. Driving home on narrow country roads in the dark so that I can be with a bunch of people I work with but almost never see. (See yesterday's post.) Practicing finger exercises and learning new piano pieces s-l-o-w-l-y because otherwise I won't learn them at all. Taking tough classes. Making new friends. Forging new trails. 

The key word here is new. It's not always easy but it's almost always worth it. 

An Adventure

Today, to avoid traffic, I plan to drive 20 or 30 miles out of my way, to etch a trail up and over rather than down and across. To take a country road rather than an interstate. It sounds crazy, which is why I'm calling it an adventure.  

I wonder if anyone has studied the miles people drive to avoid sitting on highways. If not, I propose the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area as a prime location for research. With two states plus the District of Columbia, one river and too few bridges (once you're out of the city), our neck of the woods is filled with idling cars and fuming motorists.  

Tell us, please, what we can do about it ... apart from having "adventures," of course.   

(Evening rush hour on I-66)                                                                                                                                               

Thin Places

I picked it up from the library's new nonfiction section, intrigued by the title: Thin Places: A Natural History of Healing and Home. I wasn't disappointed. Keri ní Dochartaigh's memoir is a cry of pain, a poetic rendering of human suffering, as she turns her personal experience of Ireland's "troubles" into a love song for white moths, ocean swims and her damaged island home.

With a Catholic mother and a Protestant father, Dochartaigh didn't belong anywhere, a truth that became even clearer after her childhood home was firebombed. She never felt safe growing up, and the grief she carried as an adult almost drove her to suicide. 

But Dochartaigh found solace in the very place that wounded her. After leaving Ireland as a young adult, she feels called to return to her hometown of Derry, arriving just as Brexit is threatening a hard-won peace. 

Dochartaigh takes comfort in the natural world. "There are still places on this earth that sing of all that came and left, of all that is still here and of all that is yet to come. Places that have been touched, warmed, by the presence of something.”

The thin places she finds hold her, hollow and hallow her. She finds in them a reason to go on.  

Maybe May

It's May Day, the first day of a glorious month, not a holiday in this country but in many others. I used to tell my daughters, if you're looking for a lovely time of year to be married, the beginning of May is that time. They were married in April, September and December.  So much for motherly advice. 

But what's interesting about time and weather patterns is that I wouldn't say this today. A decade or so ago, early May was a reliably beautiful time of year, prime azalea season, iris yet to pop, plenty of color amidst the green. These days it's unsettled. We might have such a May 1, but more than likely we won't. This year's unseasonably warm winter means it's looking decidedly summery, though it's quite chilly, an odd combination, to say the least.

We talk a lot about climate change with its serious implications for life on this planet. But shifts in longtime patterns of growth and maturity, planting and harvesting, affect us more subtly too. They prey on our spirits and mess with our minds. 

(An azalea in its prime ... on April 14, 2023.)