Best Present Ever!

Today there's another little person in the world, my newest grandchild, who just gave me the best birthday present ever: arriving yesterday at 6:30 p.m., just hours before the day I came into the world a few (ahem) years ago.

Who knows what triggers labor. I don't know the latest research. But I like to think there's something magical about it. At least two of my three children would have different birthdays if they were of this generation. Doctors don't let women go two weeks beyond their due dates anymore. 

But this little girl came on her own steam, at her own time. She decided she wanted her own special day. I can't wait to meet her!

Woods Walking Track

Choosing a walking path for the day is a little like choosing an outfit, which means that a weather report may be involved. When showers are forecast, as they have been recently, it's good to pick a circular trail, because there will be less distance to sprint if caught in a downpour. 

I had just such a trail in mind the other day. It's one of my earliest strolling finds, a peach of a path that makes not just one circle but two. I take the larger loop if I have more time, the shorter one if I don't. When I'm dodging raindrops, I take as many loops as I can before the wind starts to whistle. 

It struck me the other day that it was almost like walking on a track, with its precise quarter-mile distance, so you know automatically, with your revolutions, how far you've gone. 

This "track" was not quite as round or as predictable — and I'm not entirely sure about the mileage. But I could find out. 

Another Way of Living

Because of its strict property boundaries, I don't live in Reston, but I walk on its trails, buy strawberries at its farmers market, and take yoga at its community center.  

For many years, I haven't known where I live: My mailing address says Herndon, my kids attended high school in Oakton, and I commuted from Vienna.  You could say I live in the suburbs of northern Virginia, but for a person who cares about place, that's always rankled.

Since the pandemic, though, I've been gravitating to the place that suits me best, and that is Reston, a community founded and developed by Robert E. Simon (hence Reston) 60 years ago. Last night I watched a film made to celebrate the town's 50th anniversary: "Another Way of Living: The Story of Reston, VA." 

To say it makes me proud is an understatement. It roots me, inspires me, makes me want to move a mile away just to live in Reston officially. I probably won't do that. But I'll walk its trails with more awe than usual. 

(The Van Gogh Bridge in Reston's Lake Anne. More on the film in future posts.)

A Whiff of Honeysuckle

The aroma of honeysuckle is in the air, and every year I want to hold onto it, to have it close at hand so I can inhale it whenever I walk out the door. I dream of rooting a sprig of the vine, planting it, and training it to tumble over my back fence.

This year I came close to doing that, was even scouting out potential plant "donors." Then I came to my senses. Introduce another invasive species when our yard is full of knotweed, stilt grass and bamboo? I must be crazy.

Honeysuckle is a wild thing, after all, and it's best left where it is, mostly in the park or common land. A whiff may be all I get. But sometimes, a whiff is enough.

Memorial at Ball's Bluff

I couldn't visit my parents' graves at a national cemetery in Kentucky, so yesterday I thought I'd do the next best thing: visit a national cemetery in Virginia. Arlington immediately sprang to mind ... and just as quickly left it as I thought about the traffic.

Instead, I found a small national cemetery — the third smallest in the U.S., as a matter of fact — located near a Civil War battlefield, Ball's Bluff. You can hike down to the Potomac, which Union soldiers crossed before the battle on October 21, 1861. 

The skirmish did not go well for them. The Confederates prevailed, just as they had at the Battle of Bull Run a few months earlier, and a U.S. senator,  Edward Baker, was killed. His death is commemorated with a marker, and the small walled cemetery there holds the remains of 54 Union soldiers. 

It was a warm day, but the paths were shady, and at the trail's end, the Potomac River was calm and peaceful, a contrast to that day ... and so many others.

Blooming Where Planted

For so long this has been a loaded phrase for me — "blooming where planted." It carries with it more than a hint of compromise. Or maybe it's wistfulness, that I didn't stay where I was planted but moved several times as a young adult before settling where I did. 

And then there's the fact that I've ended up in the suburbs. Heaven knows I carp enough about that.

But today, the angle of the light striking the grass on the lawns I passed, the scent of the air, rich with loam and honeysuckle, made me think that there could not be a much better place to be planted. And that whatever the mixed emotions with which I've traditionally viewed the saying, there is a nobility in trying to flourish wherever you are, in contenting yourself with the situation at hand. 

(Pebble people frolic along one of my favorite routes.)

Rose Time

The climbing rose peaked a few days ago, but the plant is still weighed heavy by blossoms, and when I sit on the deck to write the air is filled with fragrance. 

When I look out at the yard through its flowers, it's a little like looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses.

But at some point, I must squeegee off the glass-topped table and abandon for a minute my journal or laptop to sweep up petals with the old broom I leave outside. 

What better way to enjoy the rose than by immersing myself in its detritus, still soft and pearly pink?

New Citizen Abo

Almost five years ago, his father stood with others from around the world and promised to defend this country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. My son-in-law Appolinaire recited the oath, shook hands with a customs officer and received a certificate of naturalization. 

Today, Appolinaire and my daughter will watch as their son becomes an American citizen. Prince arrived in the U.S. from Benin, West Africa, at age 11, on the first birthday of his baby sister.  She will be in the audience today, as will all of us, watching with pride as Prince, now 13, receives a gift he may not understand as well as his father did but which he will come to appreciate in time. 

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

It's still a remarkable statement, still a wondrous philosophy on which to build a nation. And when you see the fervor with which new citizens embrace it, our country and its founding ideals feel as fresh and extraordinary as they did almost 250 years ago. 

(A snapshot from a 2019 naturalization ceremony)

Connectivity

On a walk I took Monday and may take again today, I noticed how rich life feels when the path you are walking is not just an afterthought to a road but is a network complete unto itself. 

It leads from place to place, revealing parks and benches and fountains not easily seen otherwise. It has numerous intersections and junctions. You must know which way to turn or you will be lost, though not for long.

Such a trail has segments you recognize and enjoy: a few hundred feet winding among townhouses in the beginning, a wooded stretch, a ball field and little free library. Crossing one street, passing under another, and finally winding up in an urban village, complete with café, bookstore and community center. 

A walk from place to place is about more than exercise. It's about connectivity. 

Immortality

Today, my dear friend Nancy will be laid to rest in the Indiana earth, less than 150 miles from where we first met. But where is she now, really? 

My faith tells me that she is sleeping and will rise in glory on the Last Day. My skeptical self says, "Hmmm..." 

One thing I know for sure: Nancy lives on in the hearts of those who love her. It's an immortality in which we all can believe — and to which we all can aspire. 

(The Bernini columns in St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, one of many wonders I saw for the first time with Nancy. Photo: Wikipedia)

Listening Local

We live close to one of the nation's great symphony orchestras, but sometimes I like to keep my listening local — hyper-local, in fact. On Saturday there were two concerts within a 10-minute drive from the house: a community orchestra's year-end performance and an organ and trumpet recital at church. The timing would be close: one began at 4, the other at 6. Could we take in both?

It was not only possible, but it seemed the best possible use of a rainy Saturday afternoon. The Reston Community Orchestra was trying out the last of its four conductor finalists, and sparks (and at one point even the baton) were flying as the orchestra galloped through two Mozart overtures, the Haydn Cello Concerto and Beethoven's Second Symphony. 

Later, in the (post-vigil-Mass) sanctuary, the church's new music director turned the organ around so the audience could see all its keyboards and stops. He and the trumpeter began with Handel's "The Trumpet Shall Sound" from "The Messiah" and ended with Mussorgsky's "The Great Gate of Kiev" from "Pictures at an Exhibition." Can any two instruments sound fuller and more orchestra-like? I don't think so. 

At least on Saturday, listening local was the way to go. 

(Members of the Reston Community Orchestra take a bow)

Golden Stroll

Back from a long drive, I take to the road. Not as a motorist but a pedestrian. I'm not often walking during the "golden hour," when the sun slants low and bathes the landscape in soft light, but I was yesterday, and I reveled in it.

I first learned of the golden hour traveling with photographers. While writers can ply their trade at any hour (observing, interviewing, soaking up the local color), photographers prefer mornings and evenings to snap their shots. I see why. The world looks better then, and so do the photographs.

I didn't intend to stroll during the golden hour yesterday; that was just the time available. But once I was walking through it I realized my good fortune. Here was beauty to soothe the nerves and still the mind. 

(The golden hour in Khulna, Bangladesh.)

Family Bibles

They hold newspaper clippings, holy cards, photos of babies in long cotton gowns. Century-old flowers crumble in their pages, and their bindings are frayed and worn.

Yesterday I paged through a stack of old family bibles looking for names, dates, relationships. Some of them had elaborate closures; others were falling apart. Some of them gave up their secrets; others did not.

But all of them held the fears and triumphs of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins. They were the ceremonial center of recorded family life. I studied them, photographed them, copied words from their pages. Then I brushed their dust off my hands and came upstairs, to the land of the living.

In the Mood

Though I remain more of a dog and bird person, I occasionally visit with a tabby cat named Felix. He's an agreeable fellow; he hasn't bitten me once.

I like to watch him look out the window as he takes in a glistening, green world full of birds and squirrels that he might love to chase if only he knew they were real. 

Instead, he contents himself with climbing contraptions and scratching posts and an adorable little toy that looks like a laptop. If only he was in the mood, we could both be tapping "keyboards" at the same time. 

The thing about cats, though, is that they're seldom in the mood. 

Green Bank Shining

A walk yesterday to clear the head and boost the spirit. The day was made for it, a gift of a day if ever there was one. I walked fast and long, as if I could outpace grief. 

That wouldn't happen, but there were delights along the way: Lake Audubon, resplendent on a May morning, the scampering of squirrels and chipmunks, a green bank shining in the sun. 

We who are still living pick up the banner and march on. It is our duty ... and our privilege. 

For Nancy

I met Nancy on our first day at Hanover College when we were homesick 18-year-olds. We missed our families, we loved to travel, we lived across the hall from each other. So we neglected our bio lab reports and stayed up late to hatch crazy schemes. Maybe we'd take a tramp steamer across the Atlantic or be chambermaids in a Swiss hotel. We didn't quite pull off those adventures, but we did travel through Europe for two months on $5 ($3?) a day, surviving on baguettes and water. We'd gotten so skinny that Nancy's own grandmother didn't recognize her when she picked us up at the airport. 

Nancy and I stayed close through college and early adulthood. When Tom (another Hanoverian) and I moved to northern Virginia, Nancy, who'd lived here since grad school, quickly became an honorary aunt to our three daughters. 

Through the years, Nancy was at most every birthday party, graduation and other special event. She's part of Suzanne's first memory because it was Aunt Nancy who took care of her when Claire was born. Nancy even loved our sweet rascal of a dog, Copper. 

Nancy was a lawyer, historian and indexer extraordinaire. A proud member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, she traced her lineage back to Revolutionary War stock. One of her first and most notable jobs was at Mount Vernon, Washington's home. 

Nancy continued to travel the country and the world, skiing in Colorado, bicycling in the Netherlands, visiting Israel, Jordan, Greece and Eastern Europe. For the last eight years or so, her travel has been up and down I-95 as she spent much time in Massachusetts caring for her parents. A devoted daughter, a loving sister, an exemplary friend. 

Three weeks ago, we learned that Nancy, always caring for others, was seriously ill herself. Friends and family flocked to her side. Her older sister dropped everything and virtually lived at the hospital. We saw Nancy as much as we could, but not nearly enough. It's never enough when you can't imagine the world without the person you're visiting. 

Nancy slipped away over the weekend. I still can't believe it. I wonder if I ever will. 

(Nancy, right, with our pal Peggy, another dear college friend)

A Confluence

It happened regularly and would have happened today, which is both Mother's Day and Dad's birthday. I would make the trip out to Kentucky then, figuring the confluence gave me two reasons to visit. 

I always felt a bit bad for Dad on those days, worrying that the luster of his special day was dimmed a bit by having to share it with Mom. But Dad didn't seem to mind. 

Now I have so many reasons to revel in this day, which celebrates both my parents and on which I will see or hear from my own precious daughters and grandchildren. 

It's a confluence all right. 

Anniversary of a Masterpiece

Now I know why I was hearing snippets of Beethoven's 9th Symphony on the radio Tuesday. It was the two-hundredth anniversary of its premiere. For two centuries now we humans have had this masterwork at our disposal. 

Yesterday I read an account of its creation on the Marginalian. I'd heard some of this before, but I didn't know about Beethoven's devotion to Schiller, whose "Ode to Joy" the symphony's last movement celebrates, or the piece's long gestation period. I like to think of the notes rattling around in the composer's head as he took one of his long walks through Vienna. 

Beethoven insisted on conducting, though he was totally deaf by that point.  He was allowed to do so with the proviso that another conductor be present as a "backup." This conductor instructed the musicians to look only at him. 

When the last notes sounded the audience at first fell silent, perhaps aware even then that they had witnessed not just a concert but a moment in history. And then, in the words of the Marginalian's Maria Popova, "the gasping silence broke into a scream of applause. People leapt to their feet, waving their handkerchiefs and chanting his name. Beethoven, still facing the orchestra and still waving his arms to the delayed internal time of music only he could hear, noticed none of it, until Karoline Unger [the contralto soloist] stood up, took his arm, and gently turned him around."

(Beethoven by Julian Schmid)

Still Life

Walks lately have been wedged between errands and hospital visits, brief escapes into light and motion. Still, they have worked their magic, have loosened muscles and mind.

A photo I snapped on Tuesday's stroll captures a truth. A sky that seemed mostly cloudy, I see now, was bluer than I remembered. 

Isn't that the way of life, the way of survival? We leave the hospital or nursing home, and we want to shout hallelujah. Yes, we are sad, but we are still here, still walking upright, and the ones we love, they don't blame us for rejoicing. 

Old Photos

The women were smiling, posing in a gondola before skiing down a mountain. They wore parkas with hoods. Their faces were glowing. 

It's a photo that found its way into a hospital room yesterday, cheering the patient who would no longer ski down a mountain but who, I hope, took heart from the image and the gesture, a kindness meant to stir up memories of a happier time.

The ability of an image to hearten and inspire ... it was on full display yesterday, and I marveled at its power. 

(This isn't that photo, but it's an old photo that always makes me smile.)

Night Reading

Night reading is one of life's great pleasures. Not just reading before bed, but reading in the wee hours, at times when I'd rather be sleeping.

I don't grab a book first thing. I give deep breathing a chance to work, and sometimes it does. 

When it doesn't, I grab whatever novel or nonfiction tome is on top of the pile and plunge into another world. It's silent and dark, the only illumination supplied by my stalwart little book light. 

Thirty to sixty minutes of reading does the trick — unless I'm unusually frayed or the story is unusually suspenseful. 

Last night, neither of those was the case. I immersed myself in the Brazilian jungle until my eyelids felt heavy. When I woke up again, it was morning. 

A Gathering of Writers

I spent Saturday with 200 other writers at the 2024 Washington Writers Conference. Some of us pitched ideas to agents. Others attended panels. A few of us made sure the day was running smoothly. But all of us were our own writerly selves, and that was, at least for me, why the day was such a tonic.

Writing is a solitary occupation, with much staring at blank pages and screens. It can also be accompanied by self-questioning and doubt: How can I say that better? Should I say that at all? Will anyone read this?

When writers come together they share those questions, which eases those doubts. 

In one of the day's more memorable lines, James Grady, author of Six Days of the Condor, said, "Writing is a cross between a heroin addiction and the sex drive. It's a hunger that drives us forward."

I looked around, and every head in the room was nodding yes.

(Above: Paul Dickson speaks to the crowd after receiving the Washington Independent Review of Books Lifetime Achievement Award. Dickson has written more than 60 nonfiction books. He encouraged attendees to support each other.)

Photo Finish!

A photo finish was just what we needed yesterday, or at least just what I needed. A chance to lose the self in the moment, the moment being the "most exciting two minutes in sports," the Kentucky Derby. 

In this case, those two minutes were followed by several more minutes of uncertainty as judges studied a photograph of the race's conclusion, the first time since 1996 that such a move has been necessary. When the ruling came down — Mystik Dan by a nose — the crowd erupted. The 18-1 shot had bested Sierra Leone (9-2) and Forever Young (7-1). 

To see those three thoroughbreds thundering to the finish line, looking for all the world like a single unit, was to see grace in motion.

(A 1953 photo finish of the first triple dead heat in harness racing. Photo: Wikipedia)

Perfect Sense

I've never quite gotten used to the suburban irony of driving to walk. Sometimes I fight it; I once spent weeks figuring out how to traipse through the woods  to reach my favorite Reston trail.

This was fun but impractical. Yes, I could hike to the trail, but it took more than an hour to reach it and quickly became a three- to four-hour foray. Good exercise, but who has that many hours in the day?

Most of the time then, I resign myself to the practice. I jump in the car and burn precious fossil fuels just to amble on trails rather than streets. It's a strange way to live when viewed in the arc of human history, but to us modern folk, it makes perfect sense.

Taking Comfort

What do you write about when one of your oldest, dearest friends lies full of cancer in a hospital bed? The same thing you write about when your parents are dying, when you’re sick or confused or worn out. You write about the world around you.

It’s the second day of May. Roses are budding, birds are nesting, clematis is blooming. Last night, the first hummingbird of the season made its appearance. It’s a perfect spring morning.

Not perfect for everyone, of course, but at this moment, I feel its perfection. And I take comfort in describing it, parsing it, moving it from the real world onto the page.

Noise or Music?

I'd been itching to watch the movie "Amadeus" ever since I heard Mozart's Requiem in Kentucky. Last night I had the chance.

Though the score is the star of the show (mostly Mozart), one passage of dialogue stood out, when Mozart convinces the emperor to show an opera based on the play "The Marriage of Figaro."

“In a play if more than one person speaks at the same time, it's just noise, no one can understand a word. But with opera, with music... with music you can have twenty individuals all talking at the same time, and it's not noise, it's perfect harmony!”

Simultaneous conversations that produce beauty not cacophony. Perhaps we should be singing out all our national disagreements. A strange thought ... but maybe an interesting experiment?


(Photo: Wikipedia)