Category: #morningview

January: The Month of Beginnings #baypathmfa #morningview

The sun rose this morning over the top of my chosen treadmill at the gym — shining its winter light and miniscule heat over the frozenness of nearly week old snow and ice that may not melt by spring. In between my view over the treadmill’s control panel, planes landed from the north — following the path of the Potomac River en route to nearby National Airport (as a long timer here, I have never brought myself to call the airport by its new-ish name). The morning begins, the treadmill begins, the planes begin their rapid descent — beginnings are abundant in January. My birthday falls on the first day of January: ground zero for a new year’s beginning throes…there is no escaping the idea that change is upon me each and every year as the ball drops in Times Square — I begin each year with a new number to celebrate, revile or make peace with — there is no predicting how each number will strike me until it us upon me. This year, January is off to a fiery start – new roles and responsibilities, a pending graduation, most likely relocation; the level of planning required to surf through the next five months is filled with if-then statements.

As this month roars along, I find myself in the position of intern as part of my MFA program — a totally new role for me as I’ve never been an intern at any point in my career. And admittedly, it’s not a title I’m completely comfortable with at this point in my life, perhaps I’ll become more accustomed to it as the current semester proceeds. I am incredibly fortunate to be spending my intern time with an organization, and people, that I have great respect for — and I’m thankful for the long-term relationships that I’ve carried forward to be in this position from my previous professional life. So for this beginning, I think of it more in terms of homecoming with new eyes and practical mission: my work will be in a field that I have a keen interest in with people that are dedicated to preservation of sacred spaces and places, community building, the arts and knowledge sharing. My realm will focus on the publishing aspect of the organization from writing profiles of funding recipients, to interviewing community leaders and religious leaders that will lead to published convening reports and learning the ins and outs of organizational publishing — with which I have previous experience, but new trends and means will provide new insight and ideas. I had been wondering for awhile how to find my way back to this organization — so the intern experience is a beginning in that way, as it’s opened that door to new conversations and opportunities.

For this past week, my focus has been on reading past issues of the three-times yearly magazine the organization publishes to understand the level of depth that profiles entail as preparation for the profile piece that I’ll be preparing for the next issue. I’ve spent time researching my profile subject as well, and interviewing the founder – next I’ll be interviewing several more (anticipating two) for this piece as I consider how the profile subject (an arts organization) impacts the communities it serves. And tomorrow, bright and early I’ll jump onto Amtrak and head north to Philadelphia to meet with my organization to discuss further details of how my intern semester will proceed: projects, deadlines, brainstorming and ideas. The train is just under two hours each way and a trip I’ve taken more times than I can count — so when I deboard, I’ll be looking for both the familiar and the new as I wind my way toward Rittenhouse Square and up to the 10th floor to meet colleagues from the past and new.

Fall in the High Country #afternoonview @ExploreBoone #Octobers

“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Greene Gables

Montgomery said it best, and there’s really nothing more to add: Octobers are the absolute best and the arrival of color in the NC High Country is almost beyond words. Yellows that are deeper than any palette of oils and fire reds that burst onto the horizon — if only fall could last all year. Trying today to hang onto these colors, and this feeling.

A River Runs Through It #morningview #RockCreekPark

Fall has come to Rock Creek, and each fall I hear Robert Redford’s voice as we hike the trails of this national park nestled in the middle of urban DC. A River Runs Through It (based on the book of the same title by Norman Maclean) one of the best outdoor movies of all time, is where Redford’s voice originates — the timbre of his voice and its slowly undulating storytelling phrasing, is that of fall — the story of autumn slowly unwinds from the lush green of summer to reveal hidden colors and valleys that summer masks with its humidity. Most everything I know of storytelling comes from Robert Redford voice — pacing, deeply descriptive language, emotion, painting — listening to his voice in River will have you ready to buy your first fishing pole and metronome (or hiking poles too) and head to the woods in wool trousers. For fall, I highly recommend watching, but mostly listening to River — and seeing where you feet on the dream of autumn will take you.

6-Minute Scene #whyIwrite #nationaldayonwriting #morningview @NCTE

Last Friday in celebration of the National Day on Writing, I hosted one of three live/online workshops for my university’s first ever #whyIwrite event. Each workshop (creative nonfiction -me, poetry, environmental writing) was a flash: 30 minutes including guidance on what to write, writing, sharing.

For my session, students worked with the last photo on their phone to write as descriptively as possible the scene of the photo which could include background details that led to the photo as well as the scene unfolding in the photo. My own example below. Tip for students: this is a great exercise to break writer’s anxiety/block.

The air that was laden with humidity just days ago is finally crisp – it’s possible to move freely now outside without the weight of heat-filled water pressing down on my scalp. Today, my cheeks feel the tiny pricks of the wind that keep my face and head cool as I walk at a faster clip up the hill than I’ve been able to do in months. Darkened seed pods greet me on my approach that just days ago held the only wisp of summer flowers to grace this red mud hill. The wind carries the whistle of an oncoming train but I knew it was near before – the wind carries too the aging roasted and burnt tar of railroad ties before I turned this corner. The train rushes in on its way through town, blowing, as if those of us on the trail might leap down – the hawks, pigeons and waterlings scurry away in fright at the depth of the engines bluster and seemingly endless chugging, the humans not so much. We are unphased – the speed and dust kicked up by the engine’s pull cause these remaining seed pods to stir, but not drop, clinging to the best of seasons, for a little while to come.

Deciduous & Muddy #morningview #cherryblossoms #DCHistory

The history of DC’s cherry trees is fairly well known, but the story of how these trees must be protected and cared for, probably less so. To add to the complexity of preserving these aging trees, their micro-environment here at the Tidal Basin is fraught with peril. The land around the basin is slowly sinking while sea levels rise, and today it’s nearly equilibrium as sidewalks surrounding the basin as well as the soil to which these delicate trees cling, are often flooded. Add in the torrential storms that pass through the region, along with upper Potomac run-off that speeds toward the Atlantic from the Blue Ridge and suddenly using the word “peril” doesn’t seem extreme.

The beauty of the trees draws visitors from around the globe and I’ll be the first to admit, there is something about this natural display of pink cotton balls that has me on blossom watch too — and I too, like so many, feel drawn to be part of the festivities. It’s not only the natural explosion of color, it’s the participatory nature of the blooms — the cooperation, the friendliness, the seeing people from all walks join in conversation — all because of these blossoms. But then, the blossoms wither, and next thing I know, humidity is bursting onto the scene and we are left with the hordes of school groups that descend and no one seems to care much for the less than glorious green leaves of summer, or the deciduous scrawniness of fall. Or more importantly, the floods that leave walkers and runners clinging to the sides of the basin.

This is the real story of the tidal basin: we love it when we love it (much like any natural environment), but when we’re not in it, we cease to give it a second glance. So true is our approach to climate change, rising seas, and all that goes along with this perilous issues — our lack of a backward glance drives these changes. I would never propose to know the path forward, but I do know which paths become impassible without change — today, we’re in the mud, but to preserve beauty, simply moving to higher ground is no longer enough.

The Vocabulary of Publishing #morningview #mfa

This week in my MFA publishing course we’ve been studying words — not writing words, but words specific to the world of publishing. As someone who studied linguistics, I’m torn between how to describe this new vocabulary. Is it jargon? Is it a lexicon? Is it terminology? My best assessment is that it is a little bit of all of these. In reading over lists of words, many of which would be familiar in non-publishing contexts, we were to write about and reflect upon unknown words or phrases and how these may impact or have a place on our writer’s path. Because I often think in poetic frame, my first thought was to create a haiku with these words and phrases.

Black swan, long tail, DAD

Backlist, ONIX, remainder

Colophon, frontpiece.

Against-the-grain, bulk

Earn-out, card deck, leasing, floor

Single-title-author plan.

Preprint, mobi, slush

Back matter, EAN, PPB

Midlist, sweet spot, yeah!

In putting this haiku together, I did aim for the word that I’m most drawn to as I think it is perhaps what I am aiming for: midlist. From the American Association of Publisher’s list of commonly used terms, midlist refers to, “Books with a strong intellectual or artistic bent which have a chance of significant success but are not assumed likely bestsellers.” The last line of my haiku illustrates how I feel about this term: sweet spot. Yes, it would be lovely, gratifying and all those similar feeling words to have a best seller. But in reality, I’m not even aiming for that in undertaking an MFA and this year-long study of publishing. My sweet spot is intellectual writing, with an artful leaning. Whatever I’m writing I know has a pretty good chance of being successful as I define it (a constantly evolving evaluation). Aiming for midlist feels attainable. Accomplishable; in a publisher’s catalog, perhaps in the poetry or monograph section, maybe memoir and maybe in that special section of mash-ups that cross all of those areas. Browsing Politics and Prose’s shelves last weekend showed there are plenty of books that fall into this mushy area: some art, some prose, not on the front shelves, but not in the clearance section either. Solidly midlist.

Learning the publishing side of words can feel a bit daunting — from the language to the layers of the business; it’s hard to imagine at this stage ever being fully versed in this language when I’m already fluent in two other vocabularies of business (higher education teaching and nonprofit management). On this too, after a week of pouring over lists of words, I think “midlist” is the spot to aim here as well: aim for high middle, narrow down the focus, work to apply other vocabularies to the learning to create yet another mash-up.

Grey Skies and Mist #morningview #REI #getoutside

When you wake up at the weather app says it’s only 59 degrees, it is a feeling of pure joy; just two weeks ago it was easily 89 with 100% humidity just after the sun rises. On this glorious day to come, it looks as if the sun may not ever peek through and after a blistering, sweltering summer it is absolute relief to be outside — in a raincoat — walking at a fast clip without streams of sweat rolling down our faces.

Just the day before we purchased new raincoats at REI (member sale weekend – wahoo!). The tag in these Rainier model coats, a coincidental prediction of weather to come boldly states, “Get outside like you’re from Seattle.” When we were standing in line to purchase these, we wondered aloud to each other — well, we are from Seattle originally, shouldn’t we get a extra discount? As a member my entire adult life, which I obtained at the original REI warehouse store on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, I do think I should probably be eligible for some sort of “extra” to celebrate my longevity and devotion. Those original wood plank floors and bins of wool hats and gloves with skis hanging from the rafters were an REI far from its look of today — the scrappiness is missing. Maybe I’m not scrappy anymore either, and maybe that should be okay (but it’s not, really).

There is great value in scrappy and grey — it is not the languish or morbidity of heat, nor the shock of freeze that can paralyze — scrappy and grey is movement. Movement toward something, away from something, into something — the breadth and depth of a fog that reveals, or a tidal bump that offers a nudge. Grey and scrappy is to set the mind free through an afternoon of sketching or reading; it is also the creative big that bites and leads to discovery.

Grey mist doesn’t slow one down, it just requires the right layers to move ahead: scrappy power.

New BFFs: Names TBD #morningview #nationalmall #nationalmalltrust

Recently completed, the new stables on The Mall for the Park Police horses is part of one of our regular morning routes. In the last couple of weeks, we’ve been able to view the horses hanging their heads outside their stable enclosures but on this day, the horses were outside in their paddock. While we don’t know their actual names (we need to get inside when the education center is open to find out these details), we’ve named them ourselves after the hosts of our most recent favorite show on PBS, People of the North: Arne, Frida and Stig — as stoic Norwegians with a glint in their eyes of humor that often only they (or other Nordics) understand, these names seem fitting for our new horse friends as their demeanor is just that, stoic, on these early morning meetups or they may slowly bat their eyelashes at us in recognition of our presence. But their presence, fully themselves, is that of quiet ponderance that they bear the heavy burden of protecting, but that their glee is hidden deep behind their voluminous chocolatey eyes.

I grew up with the Black Stallion and other horse fiction, but never became a horse girl — it was so far away from any possibility that I never dreamed of riding, visiting or owning such an animal ever in my life. I’ve known friends with horses, and I have a friend now that raises ponies in Maine far from the reaches of our city lights here in DC. Now that we are regularly visiting our new friends though I wonder — could I become a horse person at midlife? Is that possible? Their demeanor has an instant calming effect most certainly — they can hold a stare like no other animal I’ve met, and they seem to listen to my questions — though much like dogs, I don’t think they have any intention of answering me, or doing as I ask. But they listen, and stand, and look — sometimes casting their gaze away to swish away an annoyance, but then they look back and acknowledge that I’m still standing there waiting for their acknowledgement. Perhaps we can be stoic together.

Fall Arrives #morningview #longbridge

The humidity snapped: we never think it will happen and then magically it does. Hoodies, sweaters, long sleeves and jeans all come popping out of the caverns these have been stuffed into. We walk outside and can actually breathe freely, not hesitatingly, not haltingly as we must through the exhaustion of constant heavy air — we can actually move in this air that does not wear us down and wear us out within minutes. The fall is when we begin to feel alive after the drudgery that is summer here: we can greet the day with some level of joy and yet still enjoy an iced coffee on the sidewalk (in our hoodies).

John Keats wrote “To Autumn” September 19, 1819 and the first stanza in particular speaks to all the glory that is this season — the best season.

To Autumn (first stanza here, link to complete poem)

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Name Changes, Patina Remains #morningview #15thStreetHistory

The 15th Street Historic District, located just steps from the White House and The Mall, is most likely overlooked by most that visit downtown DC. This corridor aligns and in some cases facades face, the historic Treasury building in Beaux Arts and Queen Anne styles. The photo here, the former National Savings and Trust Bank (now Truist), anchors the corner of 15th and Pennsylvania — its windows keeping solid watch in roundabout fashion toward the southwest and southeast, a day and night watch on an ever challenging streetscape.

Guarding this corner since 1888, it is hard to grasp the sheer number of people that have entered its doors, worked inside, and passed by on its sidewalks. Riots, protests, government shutdowns, pandemics; digging of Metro tunnels, motorcades, inaugurations and funeral processions — all have passed within site of these windows and those that look down to the streetscape from the comfort of being behind the glass. The stoner skateboarder kids clack and crack over the words of Walt Whitman, “Never, til the capital had cost the life of the beautiful and the brave of our land , did it become to the heart of the American citizen” and Frederick Douglass, “Washington has certainly an air of more magnificence than any other American town. It is mean in detail, but the outline has a certain grandeur about it.”

The windows see it all — and hold it all, the words, the clacks and cracks surrounded by a protective glaze of age– perhaps these windows are the heart of Washington: names (and allegiances change), while patina shines despite the rains and hardships that any window must endure.

Rails, Planes, Bridges #morningview #longbridge #neverforget

Since 1808 the area known as Long Bridge has connected the Virginia side of the Potomac to the D.C. side of the Potomac; historically, this area was part of the capital city but was ceded back to Virginia pre-Civil War. A quick Google will turn up facts such as the history of the foot bridge here where rates were different for foot-only, or person plus horse traffic, and sheep or pigs. Today, freight and commuter trains roll by while planes take off nearly every minute from National Airport (as a long-timer here I do not call this airport by its current name). This week on one of the first not excruciating days of September, the skies are blue and clear — no humidity haze hangs on our heads as we walk and watch the human and nature made transportation soar and roar past us.

This particular week of September always feels compressed: the weather is finally changing, the sky is clearing but there are memories and sadness that lead to the compressed feeling compared to the expansiveness that next week will bring with the seasonal changes. Twenty-two years ago, September mornings started much the same as this one – clear blue skies, beautiful temperatures to meet the sunrise – a fall day full of hope. And smoke. And jet fuel. And destruction. And words that still do not full express the trauma of living near, and with terror. Here on this path, in the shadow of the Pentagon and its breach, I always feel that we live in one of the safest places in the world — we know the sounds of various types of helicopters, to look for the signs — a silent sky is not a friendly sky. It’s hard to think of the losses that are ever-present in hearts and minds. On this day, there is peace on these banks. The seabirds fly, the squirrels frantically dart and the day goes on as any other early fall day might, except for the memories.

Accomplished #bostonmfa #morningview (a few weeks ago)

On Flowers by Amy Merrick is a book I spotted recently at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts — I didn’t want to carry the hardback home on the train so it’s on my wishlist for two reasons: it is beautiful and it is a great model for the type of writing I want to do.

I’m in my second year of an MFA program, which some in my world already know (but many do not). I considered heading down this road for years and here I am, right in the middle of the process. A current class I’m taking has me finally focusing on my blog, and investigating my thoughts about what being a writer means to me. Today, this road takes me to what it means to be accomplished, where this program has taken me so far (and where I hope it will go) and the differences and overlap between successful and accomplished.

What does being accomplished mean to me? I felt that before I addressed this question, I needed to know more about the word and its roots as in usage, accomplished is heaped with emotion and I wanted to remove that element to begin my thoughts. From the Oxford English Dictionary, the etymology of accomplish dates back to the 13th century Italian, Spanish, Catalan and Old Occitan (had to look this one up = historical Romance language leading to lyric poetry). Two definitions from the OED standout to me: To fulfil, perform, or carry out successfully (an undertaking, desire, request, etc.); to achieve (one’s object) and to make complete or perfect; to fit out or equip. This definition I found to be worth more consideration, though the OED states it is no longer common usage: To complete, spend, or pass (a period of time); to reach (a certain age). Accomplished to me is a combination of all of these definitions: a completed body of work, a completed course of desired action, achievements of my own definition and to spend periods of time working toward my desired body of work. I try, to varying degrees, to hold to these ideas as I know what I have accomplished to date, and will in the future, as these values are intrinsic — what I consider accomplished may not meet the definition of external forces (though acceptance and accolades are two things I certainly want).

In what ways have you become more accomplished during the course of this program? Now that I’m in my second year, I find the rearview on year one to be one that I absolutely treasure for the change it brought to my life in so many ways: from my ability to start and maintain my countenance and momentum through incredibly trying times to finding my lost writing voice. This is not to say that at times (many) I wondered how I could ever balance this commitment; but I did move through each step because it quickly became apparent that this program is about me and work that I produce is for myself (and readers one day), not work in service to others. These may sound like intangible accomplishments, but to me these are rock solid as I move into a new phase of my life. On the more tangible side, consistency in writing is a major accomplishment, that has led to production — this is one aspect I had hoped to gain by going into this program.

Is there a connection between being an accomplished writer and a published writer? Tricky question. I’ve known many accomplished writers over my life and their work might be buried in government reports, association magazines or bundles of letters — but these writers are not published in the way we might usually think of it. We all want to be published writers, and I think there are many routes to publication — I would love a best seller just like every writer, and I hate rejection emails just like every writer — but I know I’ll feel the most joy if I’m producing work that I feel good about and it finds its way to the right publication for the work. One great aspect of this course in publishing so far is expanding my own thoughts on avenues — some of which I already knew about but hadn’t put the “publishing lens” to before. Yes, I would love to publish my thesis in book form and have it reach readers that find it meaningful.

Is there a difference between being successful and accomplished as a writer? Yes. Success also has many layers to it and definitions society ascribes to it that make it something of a minefield to me. There are bestsellers that I will never understand and cannot get through; and plenty of essays that feel like gibberish from successful writers. There are many accomplished writers that put in all the elements that could lead to a bestseller, but never attain that ranking — so in many ways success can be artificial. I think this one really depends on how we define success for ourselves. I used to think I would love to give up my day job (currently teaching English to college students) and write as my main activity/income generator — but now I’m not so sure; yes, I would like to write and also earn from that, but I also know I need different inputs and I have a lifetime of skills that I want to and should use as well. Moving toward a more writing-friendly day job is certainly in the forefront of my mind as I write this post (teaching composition doesn’t mean the composition professor has a ton of brain cells left over for her own creative work each day). To wrap-up: yes, there can be, should be, and are differences between successful and accomplished but these don’t necessarily need to be in separate silos — there should be cross-over on this winding path.

Train in the Window #morningview

My view from the treadmill today — a Virginia Railway Express train headed rapidly toward downtown. The heat is excruciating today, at 85 degrees at 7:30 am. This heat often leads to train slowdowns as the rails buckle from the hothouse humidity of the air coupled with the intense friction from train speed — but this driver seems determined to make the schedule, which I admire from a punctuality standpoint (and former train commuter) but from my perch inside this wonderfully chilled community center gym, I silently wish for safe delivery of all passengers.

Just before this commuter train whizzed into view, the longest freight train I’ve ever seen in the city ambled by at a speed of no more than 20 mph — each car swaying in waltzing fashion slightly to and fro, frame in-tact, but timid in approach. As my footfalls caused me to start feeling the sweat and I turned on the extra fan on the treadmill’s dashboard, I wondered how it comes to be that toxic chemical containers on freight trains are situated right next to newer cars with eco-friendly bamboo floors. How do all of these co-mingled things live side-by-side for endless miles, couple and uncouple, to land products on the shelves of Target stores near and far?

Trains: transportation of people and goods, and the truest view of the world.

The Quiet Memorial #morningview

Memorial to Washington, DC residents that served in WWI

February 8

Just off to the side of the well-traversed pathways leading to and from the Lincoln Memorial, rests a memorial to those DC residents that lost their lives in World War I. Press cameras don’t set-up here, crowds don’t protest here but we’ve seen several weddings and numerous engagement photo shoots here over the last few months (including one with the wedding party dressed as super heroes).

Perhaps it’s the quiet of this spot, wedged in between protest alley and the windy speeds on Independence Avenue from Hill workers roaring by, that draws the newly in-love and those ready to commit. Perhaps it’s the aura of honor and dedication that radiates from the patinaed dome to the glow that emanates from within as the sun bounces off the well-worn marble. Perhaps it’s just logistics — it is resounding beauty in a beloved city, with easy parking across the street at the MLK, where one can celebrate for a few moments without a crush of other humans from places near and far.

Iceberg Ahead! #morningview

February 4

These seagulls found the last remaining ice floating on the Tidal Basin for a rest and some fishing. It may be tough to see but one of our gull friends had just plucked a live catfish out for breakfast — only to find the gulls from each side of the iceberg jumping onto his part of the berg, casting the whole flotilla to begin drifting precariously toward the sea wall. While we didn’t wait for the crash, we did observe that these squawking friends appeared unconcerned even though their perch was about to slam into a decaying concrete wall. Their eyes only see the sky above, when their beaks are not pecking frenetically into their subdued prey. Within weeks, this scene will burst with a frenzy of pink blossoms; but grey washes out all color — grey sky, grey water, grey birds.

The Jefferson in the Mist #morningview

Late last fall I began posting photos on Instagram with the tag #morning view. Every morning we head out for a hike or long walk to start the day with clear minds, and check-in on the characters that we’ve grown accustomed to on these treks.

But at some point over the last month, as I struggle to write anything but lesson plans it occurred to me that my material was obvious: #morningview needed a plan too. Since we’ve been unable to travel during the Pandemic, our roaming has and continues to be much closer to home than usual — but the amount of material within 50 miles of home is immense. So I thought to myself maybe I should write what I see everyday, instead of waiting for those bigger trips; it’s rare a day goes by that I don’t take at least one photo so here we go. For now, I’ll start where we are and work backward to the beginning of the year. Fingers crossed, this project will have a bigger purpose soon.

Jefferson in the Mist: February 3. Freezing fog, ice on the Tidal Basin.

Cold and damp to the bone day, but hovering around freezing as we head out for this trek. Some days we have a particular route we want to take on these outings, or a particular goal. For this day, it was all about capturing the fog as best we could as it hovered on top of the monuments. It’s easy to see the the swirling and shifting patterns in the ice – that moment, or many moments over the last few weeks where time stood still and this usually fluctuating basin for the Potomac and snapped it into place. For weeks on end the water moves with the tides that roar up and down the Potomac; but for now time is suspended while the sheet of ice captures all that moves.

Dense fog encircled the Jefferson on this day and I think back to a few times I’ve been stuck in airports due to freezing fog like this — because it’s hard to hear the usual soaring upward roar of jets taking off from nearby National Airport (I will always use the original name). Jets may well be taking off for that sunshine above the clouds, but silence reigns on this day. Our usual helicopter friends from Marine One to Eagle One and news choppers are also silent – no whirring, thwap thwap just above the tree-line, as visibility is below zero. On this day, silence is omnipresent – except for our shrieking at the awesomeness of the ice (wishing we had some sticks to poke it) and witnessing the suspension of time.