A month of Sundays

Note 36: Odds and ends on the 8th Sunday of the year

A month of Sundays

Does that mean 4ish weeks, or 30ish weeks, or just a long time? The Oxford English Dictionary cites the first printed use of the phrase from 1759. I can’t tell from the context whether this would be delightful or drudgery.

“The commander … swore he should dance to the second part of the same tune, for a month of Sundays.”— H. MURRAY,  Life & Real Adventures Hamilton Murray

Aside from a gush of gratitude in December, it’s been a while — about a month of Sundays — since the last note. (Or, as some say now, “It’s been a minute” (which mistimed fingers rendered “it’s been a minuet”)). So, an emptying of pockets, a clearing of some tote bags of thought, a showing up in this new year.

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Putting your best foot forward

Do you have January 1 rituals? Years ago I used to hike on the first day of the year, with family or solo. Arkansas, “the Natural State,” is full of parks with great trails. Western Pennsylvania has good parks and trails, too, but generally much colder winters. This year I was in central Ohio when the ball dropped, and wanted to renew that tradition. Where could I go to find real woodsy trails and some up-and-down elevation change? My brother recommended Highbanks Metro Park in Columbus, having walked those trails a lot in the weirdness of the pandemic.

A lot of other people had the same idea. The visitor center parking lot was full, but overflow lots across the road had space. My thrift-store parka, the Christmas gift of a battery-powered handwarmer, and steady movement decreased the chill. A couple of hours on some of the interconnecting trails, with so many people smiling and greeting “Hello” or “Happy New Year,” singles and pairs and three generations of family, was a great way to walk into the new year. You could easily believe the distant sound of urban traffic was a waterfall somewhere. Thank goodness for people who preserve wildness in urban places — and for the visitor center, with its kid-friendly activities and sitting room with comfy chairs, many books, a large window for viewing birdfeeder traffic, and public restrooms open daily. I finished exhilarated, and wanting to explore nearby trails more this year.

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Random acts of singing

Someone was singing yesterday morning, or two someones. Where? Next door, in the recently vacated apartment where the floors are hardwood and a furnitureless space would amplify sound? Or downstairs, where the pianist for the ballet company practices sometimes?

It was such an unexpected, enchanting sound that I stopped doing what I was doing and listened. Two women’s voices, sometimes on the same note but one seeming to follow the other, as if learning, practicing. I think maybe a piano chord or two, but I’m not sure. I went into the hall and the sound was muted. Back into my place — a little louder. I went down the stairs and vewy vewy quietwy opened the door from stairwell to hall … Nothing. They had stopped, wherever they were. But for a moment there, it was real.

Then, later as afternoon turned to evening, waiting for the elevator, I heard a woman singing again. From a home on the first floor, or coming down in the elevator? I don’t know. But the wonder echoed in me all day. May there be more random acts of singing.

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Janus, looking back and forth

Had I written in January, I might have reviewed the past year, like the two-faced god the month is named for. March: celebrating the conclusion of a six-month CPE unit of chaplaincy internship in a major hospital; my beloved cohort and our intrepid, wondrous supervisor spent our last class day with a Greek feast and words of blessing for each other. April: Finishing another year teaching bright young people at Pitt. May: graduating from seminary with a diploma in Christian ministry. June: continuing classes with a one-week intensive on church music history and a composition project; a visit to Vermont for a writing retreat with friends in a generously offered cabin, with a swing into NY for a visit with a friend and tour of her hometown. September: a week in remote Alaska, writing work, new friends, abundant seafood. December: first Christmas and second Christmas, wonderfully peopled days. And through the year, simple, memorable things: draining and refilling a Berkey water filter and taking turns washing dishes by hand; hearing owls at night, very close; being present when someone who had always wanted to try kayaking got to do it in clear water with starfishes and sea anemones; seeing a sundog; making a new friend; playing Irish music with a group again for the first time since pre-pandemic. It was a good year. So, so far, is this one.

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Market appeal

Apples from a chain store packaged in a white paper sack with a sturdy handle will always be more appealing than a plastic bag full, even if the ones in plastic cost less per pound than the others. It evokes a roadside stand, the orchard, the option to remove a few or add a few if you find the bag too full or not full enough; and, as they might point out in words printed on themselves, they are reusable and recyclable. There’s just a little more joy in hefting one of those bags into the buggy and toting it to the car.

Strong opinion: Honeycrisp is the best apple for eating. I’m willing to discuss but not to change my mind. (True, part of the appeal is in the name.)

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Pondering pain
The source of and reason for and uncertainty about pain can make a huge difference in how you experience it.

Say you have a mysterious leg ache, all of a sudden, for no reason you can think of. Except maybe that fall five days earlier, but you didn’t whack that part of your shin. You see professionals who rule out the thing you are worried about, but have no real answer for why it hurts where it hurts and why it’s worse at night, even with two acetaminophens. Then an orthopedic surgeon friend looks at it, feels it, asks better questions, explains it’s a delayed response from the trauma of that fall’s impact point, and says it will slowly heal itself.

Days later, you wake and feel perhaps an equal level of pain discomfort in your calves, all of a sudden. But it troubles you not; you know it’s because of those calf exercises you did the day before, and you’re even pleased: the pain is a sign of progress. What we understand about the source of pain makes a difference in living with it and trusting a healing process.

It makes me wonder how people with chronic pain deal with it, keep their alert minds calmed and so bypass some of the fight-or-flight responses that can come with pain and further complicate health. And reminds me of Eula Biss’ amazing essay “The Pain Scale.”

In my second unit of CPE, I’m seeing hospice patients rather than hospital patients — steady visits with a handful rather than mostly one-time visits with many. Some of them live with pain. I want to understand that better. Feel free to point me to resources or share your own knowledge.

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Heat transfer, narrow window of possibility

Dressing entirely from a pile of clothes still warm of the dryer is like eating biscuits still warm from the oven.

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Recent reads

Portuguese Irregular Verbs by Alexander McCall Smith, brief and hilarious and the first in a series about a fictional scholar, Professor Dr. von Igelfeld. This is a book you could judge by its cover; it was well worth the 50 cents I spent at a library sale.

Jeff Oaks’ last poetry collection, The Things. So many good poems about grief and relationship, specifically before and after his mother’s death. Jeff was a grad school friend, and I probably wouldn’t be teaching at Pitt if not for him. He died in December of cancer, too soon. He also made beautiful visual art.

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Exeunt

Thank you for reading. I always have ideas about themes, projects, directions … and admiration for other writers’ sustaining practices. Let me know what you value here. Until next time, take care.

It’s been a minuet,

Laura