Happy Early Solstice!

Today at 4:51 p.m., the northern hemisphere of our planet officially enters its hottest season. It's the earliest solstice in 228 years, they're saying, since George Washington was president.

I've been thinking of George Washington lately, what with the discovery of 35 bottles of preserved cherries recently found at his home, Mount Vernon. Now I'll think of him again, enjoying the longest day of the year, perhaps in Philadelphia, then the capital of these United States. A few months later, he will deliver his farewell address. 

But back to the solstice, which is early this year because of leap year and our imperfect calendar. I could have waited one more day for it — savored the anticipation — but there's no way to stop a celestial body when it has made up its mind. 

And so I prepare to drain as much daylight and happiness from this day as I can. It's the longest one; it can spare it. 

(A favorite sunrise shot, the beach at Chincoteague, April 2016.)

7:32

Still thinking of the sunrise I saw on the beach. By this time the clouds would be pinking and purpling, the "rosy-fingered dawn" expanding her reach. We are only minutes away, sunrise at 7:32 this morning and now it's 7:26. 

What I thought earlier in the month when I was observing the phenomenon in person was how anthropocentric we are: sunrise. Shouldn't it be earth turn or earth set? 

But we name things as we see them, and to us the sun does rise, although it may seem to flatten and split in the process. 

I'm seeing it again, the miraculousness of it all. It's 7:32. I'm pushing publish.

Far Away and Close at Hand

Since witnessing sunrise on the beach last week I've been thinking how nice it is to have a view of the horizon. It doesn't have to be the Atlantic through a scrim of dune grass. I'd welcome any view that took me out of tangled green. 

Be careful what you wish for, though, I tell myself. Spending time in bare, flat places makes me realize how soothing is the company of trees, how subtle but important is the rise and fall of the land on which we find ourselves.

How lovely it would be to have it both ways, to have the openness of the horizon and the coziness of trees — the greensward and the den, the faraway and the close-at-hand. It just occurred to me that I grew up in such a place, the natural savannah land of central Kentucky, the Bluegrass. No wonder I want it all.

(The sun slants low over the Osage orange trees on Pisgah Pike in Woodford County, Kentucky.) 

Way Too Early

The Washington and Old Dominion (W&OD) Rails to Trails path was bustling late yesterday when I finally made my way to it. There were runners and walkers and cyclists, mostly the latter zooming by with a brisk warning of "passing on the left." 

I slipped into what I always think of as the "bridle path" part of the trail, the unpaved route that runs alongside the asphalt. But due to the bridges over Herndon and Fairfax County Parkways, I couldn't always stay on that calmer and less traveled path. 

What I could do was to focus on the scenery I passed: the changing colors of the deciduous trees. 

The subtle beauty of the shaggy undergrowth ... and the sun setting way too early, once again.

Salute to Sunrise

My classical radio station has begun playing a salute to the sunrise. Every morning at 7:14 (can it really be that late now?) or, eventually, 6:05 (ah, that's better!), you can hear a flourish of strings and a fanfare of trumpets. Look out the window, the host says, at another glorious sunrise.

I like this because it reminds us of a meteorological miracle, a fact that can be ignored or noticed. We can stay in the darkness or turn toward the light. We can keep our eyes down, staring at our phone, or we can lift them up, to the heavens.

It's easier to look down. Not just because gravity pulls us this way, but because we are busy. We have work email to check, social media to scan. But looking up just takes a minute, and in that minute we can reorder our day.

Late Light Walk

It was almost 7 p.m. last night but the air was so fresh and still, so lit up from the inside, that I just had to pull over and walk through it.

Luckily, I was near a Reston path. So I laced up my spare tennis shoes and hit the trail.

I've just been reading Annie Dillard (more about her in a later post) and am sorely conscious of how beautifully light can be described.  So let me just say that I felt as I was walking through a painting by Thomas Cole or other Hudson River School painter. I felt that the light was shimmering all around me, that it was bouncing off the trees and the darker shapes and illuminating them, too.

It wasn't quite as dramatic as these photos (snapped, ironically enough, quite near the Hudson River, on the train trip home night before last) but it had some of this drama.

It was dark by the end of my walk, but that didn't matter. I was all lit up inside.

Siesta Sunset

For Atlantic beaches I rise early to catch the sunrise. But for Gulf beaches, there's no need to join the dawn patrol. The big show is in the evening.

About 7:45 or 8:00 p.m., there's a little rush hour here of folks walking to the strand, some with drinks in hand, all ready to watch the big orb drop slowly into the surf.

Most carry their phones, others have cameras. My first night here I happened upon a sunset beach wedding. Though I usually like to people-watch, for Siesta Key sunsets I keep my eyes trained on the sky. Most people do.

What is it about elemental pleasures that so soothe and satisfy? I'm not sure. But I do know that vacations awaken our ability to seek them out and be part of them again.

Before the Gloaming

It was almost 7 p.m. when I parked the car on Soapstone Drive. There are pull-outs there for trail access, for bluebell viewing in April and sultry strolls in July.

This was for the latter. It was impromptu and it was divine.

I slipped off my jacket, laced up the pair of spare running shoes I keep in the back and took off on an almost empty Reston trail.

I walked east, and the air sung around me. Crickets were tuning up for their evening chorus and the swamp radiated with heat and insect buzz.

Fifteen minutes in I joined the Cross-County Trail, my first time on it in months. I walked across a bridge that smells of creosote, spotted a stand of Black-eyed Susans in the meadow.

It was Thursday. Light was golden before the gloaming. I was almost home.

Heavenly Surprises

Twice within 12 hours I've been surprised by heavenly bodies. Well, not completely surprised. I knew each time that there was a sun or a moon in the sky. But surprised in that I wasn't expecting to glimpse them when I did, and that perhaps because of this — or perhaps not — I was swept away.

Last night I walked in perfect air, perfect temperature, a glorious midsummer evening. I admired the light as I walked east, thought about how fetchingly it struck the great old oaks and maples, how beautifully it bathed our neighborhood.

But when I reached the other end of Folkstone, I caught my breath. There was the sun, the source of all this beauty. Even though I'd been walking in its light the whole way I'd somehow forgotten. And there it was, the setting sun.

This morning it was the moon that surprised me. I hadn't realized it was almost full, and still up, when I took my early walk. Once again, a turn to the west took my breath away. The globe was suspended in a sky of pale blue, centered between banks of trees. A spectacular sight. A morning treat.

It is, perhaps, a sign of my discombobulation, these heavenly surprises. But maybe not. Maybe it's just natural beauty at work.

The Day After

The day after Christmas: filled with boxes and bundles, loading up the car, waving goodbye, saying hello, eating (some more). And then, when it's almost too late, a walk to the Severn River.

From the warmth and chaos of a family holiday to the pure piercing beauty of a midwinter sunset.

Beach Traffic

Foot traffic on a beach goes two directions— up and down along the strand and back and forth from towel to surf.

When I walk the beach I take the former. I'm a woman on a mission, moving quickly, arms swinging. I'm not alone in this purposeful movement. There are bikers and runners and beachcombers, all of us with goals in mind.

The bathers, on the other hand, amble easily toward the waves. They stop and start. They turn back. They pose for photographs. They brake for sand castles. 

Yesterday on the beach a man performed the slow, intricate steps of tai chi. He summoned up the calm of the ocean into his arms and legs. He was going neither up and down nor back and forth. He wasn't going anywhere at all. He was simply being.

This is what I take with me from the beach.

Sun on Water

The sun rises and sets every day, of course, but in my regular life I don't see it.

It's an everyday miracle hidden behind hills and houses and daily routines.

But here at the beach I have time to watch the sun as it moves through the sky. Faraway star, morning beacon, evening entertainment — it disappears, finally, behind banks of clouds. But first a light show, late rays on water, glorious, best viewed in silence.

Awed into Silence

It's August now. Mornings are later and evenings earlier. Some of my after-dinner strolls end in darkness. But a few nights ago I walked mid-gloaming, and the sky shimmered with light. The colors were those of a baby's nursery, pinks and blues. Only they were lit from inside and shone with the brilliance of the spectrum; they were almost kaleidoscopic.

Before there were televisions and computers and electric lights to read by late at night, there were sunsets to awe us into silence, to send us off to sleep believing in something larger than ourselves.