Peace like a River: Late September, 2001

At 6:30 in the morning, the sun isn’t quite ready to officially start the day.  I head north through the streets of Alexandria, past sleeping shuttered townhouses. At this hour, the town belongs to early-bird joggers, dog-walkers, and delivery trucks. King Street is virtually empty-- a straight line from the Masonic Memorial to the Potomac.

The Potomac is a fluid American history lesson, marking the unofficial dividing line between North and South, and acting as a natural window into the past for all who follow its path.

Travel upriver from George Washington’s home at Mt. Vernon  to Alexandria, the port town that has transitioned from tobacco and torpedos to cruise ships, tall ships, and tourists. Alexandria –where George Washington truly did sleep, eat, worship, and celebrate--lays claim also to the Lees, both Lighthorse Harry and Robert E., as well as a number of famous visitors, from revolutionary times to the present. Pass beneath the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, named for another of Virginia’s presidential sons, as controversial in his time as his namesake is today.

I join the parkway where the park begins. My route follows the river past Ronald Reagan National Airport, the Lyndon Johnson Memorial Grove, the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, the Kennedy Center, and encompasses views of the Washington Monument and the Capitol.  With the river drawing attention on the right, it’s almost impossible to watch the opposite side of the road—but if I pay attention, I can see the Pentagon there, and Arlington Cemetery, guarded by the Custis-Lee Mansion on the hill above. Immediately below it is the Kennedy gravesite, with its eternal flame.

Georgetown University appears on the opposite shore, and the National Cathedral; the old USA Today building looms, and there are signs for the Iwo Jima Memorial. Crews from Georgetown row each morning, and Roosevelt Island  beckons joggers on the right.

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I have the best commute in Washington. I travel alongside the river and it changes every day. There are mornings that are pink with promise, as the sun hits the water through rosy sunrise clouds. There are mists and fogs that turn the river gunmetal gray and other-worldly.  There are days that the river is blue and bright and beckoning, and the river-mirrored arches of the bridges beg for paints and brush (and talent) to capture them forever. All these changes are anchored and held fast by the familiar architecture and daily fabric of my life, my work, my world. Comfortable and safe, I can daydream my way to work, indulging in historical fantasies, considering books I could write, or pictures I could paint. I often think that I should  carry a camera with me and take a picture each morning to record the moods and faces of the river. I never do it. In the world I inhabit, there are years of possibility just over the horizon, just around the bend of the river, and “someday” has always been enough of a deadline.

Things are different now. The airport is silent as I pass, and each landmark monument is replaced in the blink of an eye by a blazing funeral pyre—and just as quickly returns to its normal appearance. It’s no longer hard to see the Pentagon. It draws my eye like a magnet, a tragic lodestone inscribed with the names of friends and neighbors. The Capitol stands clear on the skyline, but every sight asks, “What if…?” What if I had to look every day at an empty place in this landscape?  What if the wisdom of the past, and the sacrifices of yesterday are not enough to ensure that life as we know it will go on? The world has irretrievably changed, and with it, my complacency. The face of evil is reflected in the mirror of our daily lives, in the image of our icons, in the waters of our rivers. We will never be quite the same.

Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace.

Changes

Yesterday I rearranged furniture: not your usual vacation activity, but...you see, we have this place in San Diego, and, every now and then, when we visit, I get inspired. This time, it was just plain irritation that got me started.

The back bedroom has always been a trial: the result of too much furniture trucked from back east, and too little space for it all. When we moved our truckload of furniture out here, it arrived the afternoon before we had to leave. We were lucky to get it all inside, much less satisfactorily situated. Over the past five years or so, we've come and gone, but the back bedroom remained cramped and crowded--a double bed (a very tall double bed with an impressive walnut head and footboard), a Victorian dresser and a shorter, squatter dresser--and a rug (8x10, Oriental, too good to dispose of) all  in one secondary bedroom with two closets, a bathroom, and one window. That translates to ONE blank wall, one wall with a window, and two walls with two doors each.  A decorator's nightmare. The bed (have I mentioned that it's solid walnut and heavy as hell?) was placed lengthwise tight against the window wall, making it impossible to change sheets without literally lifting the bed (or else I'd screw up the rug..) Also impossible: opening the window or manipulating the shade that covered it, turning on or off the sconce on the wall, which provides much-needed light.

So this visit, while waiting for an HVAC technician for some five hours, I thought and I puzzled till my puzzler was sore; then I thought of something I hadn't before. The closet. A long, wide closet that we'd been storing junk in. I cleared it out.

Then, I measured and figured and measured some more, decided on a sequence of action: very important when you have a room that' s difficult to turn around in. I disassembled the big walnut bed, and took all the pieces into the hall. I rolled up the rug. I swept, I mopped, I Murphy-Oil-Soaped the floor. I wiped the baseboards. I herded the dust buffaloes (my daughter's designation for things MUCH larger than dust bunnies ) out of the room. I slid the squat dresser (O, the genius!) into the closet. I slid the tall Victorian dresser and mirror to another wall. I assembled a smaller, lighter cherry spindle bed ( previously stored in the closet) perpendicular to the window wall, next to the window. I swiped an Oriental-style area rug from the hall bathroom (I know, I know--but it fit so well in there!) In one morning, I solved all the room's problems. I can access the bed on three sides, no longer having to fling myself across it to make it up, no longer having to climb onto the bed to raise the shade or turn on the light. I re- hung JC's grandparents' high school diplomas--and even had room to add a chair, and a nightstand..and was able to bring a tall, skinny glass lamp out of hiding and place it near the bed. It made me happy. Pictured, top to bottom: the BEFORE pic, then the same wall AFTER with dresser and chair, then the same window AFTER moving stuff around.

And, you say, is there a point to this lengthy tale of furniture moving? Why, yes, there is. Every time I walk into that room now (and I make a point to do it frequently) I feel inexplicably happy. A morning of small labors did that. And the point is -- little things add up to big ones. The elimination of that pile of irritations has changed me, perhaps only in a small way, perhaps only for a short time. But, if I can change my attitude, my outlook, my state of mind by tackling irritations head-on, maybe I can improve on life in general. Think how happy we could all be if we could root out those burrs under our respective saddles, whether those burrs are political or personal or job-related; think of all we could accomplish, one small victory, one small, cramped room at a time.