buzzard rock north hike | gw national forest

"When it rains, it pours" is an apropos saying for my last two weeks. My boss has been on paternity leave, putting me in a great position to step up, make bigger decisions, and take on some more responsibility. The other side of that coin is an increased work load with some unexpected, big projects thrown in the mix. After the longer work days, I've been attending the last information sessions at graduate schools, studying for the GRE, fitting in book club, and trying to find time to cook healthy dinners and feel like I'm working to get back in shape. Alongside those factors is the biggest thing going on in my life - my mom has been in the ER three times in the last, well, two weeks. She has had some nagging health issues for years - 3 years to be exact - that have yet to be diagnosed.

I've been this ball of anxious, stressed out energy for these two weeks, trying desperately to shake the internet like an 8-ball until it gives me a diagnosis for my mom. I've called specialists and talked to her repeatedly and I think I have an idea of what's going on with her, but until we know for sure, it's hard to think about anything else.

Every time Zander and I talk recently, he barely gets to say a word. I inundate him with work and my mom's symptoms and my diagnoses, and he listens patiently. And when he gets a few words in, over and over, they have been, "What can we do?"

That "we" holds so much power. It's the promise of, "You're not alone. I'm by your side." It's a powerful word, those two little letters, and it has given me so much comfort.

By this weekend, I needed a break. So Zan and I picked a trail and headed out into Virginia where we could think about nothing except how beautiful the remaining fall colors are.

Before we left, he gave me a thoughtful card that made me well up, writing in it words of encouragement. Before I could even hug him, he handed me a wrapped package, a completely unexpected gift. He had gotten me the very camera I've been eying all year, plotting ways to afford it before we leave for Ecuador next month. He got it weeks ago and toyed with waiting until Christmas but wanted me to have time to learn a few things before our trip. Of course, I cried. And then we excitedly put it all together, charged the battery, and brought it with us into the woods. 

It felt so good to get out of the city and into the brisk, bright daylight. For the first 2 miles of the trail, we didn't see a single other person. Zan and I don't talk much when we hike. When we first started dating, it used to stress me out - is this a bad thing? Do we have nothing to say to each other? Shouldn't we be getting to know each other? Now, I love that it's the way we are. We talk all the time. Hiking is our chance to just be together, listening to the sound of our breath, the wind, and the leaves crunching beneath our feet.

We hiked the 4-mile Buzzard Rock north trail in George Washington National Forest. For the first mile, we strolled through the woods like it was a lazy Saturday. We saw a large buck, and for an instant it was a beautiful sight - the buck in the midst of a blazing red, orange, and yellow forest, and then that moment came to a quick halt when Theo went chasing after him. He came right back, but the poor buck was probably scared.

I took a billion pictures, and like a grandma thought over and over again that maybe hiking in the fall is a dangerous sport - for all the leaves covering the loose rocks (my paranoia after spraining my ankle a few months ago coming out!). But the views were our reward, and in the distance the Blue Ridge Mountains peeked out, and the leaves shone in their late fall glory. We turned the 4 miles into 5 by hiking beyond our turnaround point, until we convinced ourselves there wasn't another great overlook.

By the time we got back to the car, I was famished and more tired than I expected. I devoured a sandwich, feeding Theo bites of bread and turkey, and scanned the pictures on my new camera, smiling from ear to ear.

It's true that when it rains it pours, but every rain storm ends, and the sun always, always comes out again. Sometimes that sunshine is in the form of a we and photographic memories.

if you go...

buzzard rock north hiking upward

distance: 4-5 miles

difficulty: 1-2.5/5 (depending on how far you go)

views: 4

very dog friendly!

take me away to tuscany

^^gianni berengo gardin, "toscana," 1965

You set me and my thoughts a-wandering

along the path to the eternal void;

and then

this wretched time flees, and with it

the throng of woes afflicting it and me;

and while I behold your peacefulness,

that warlike spirit that rages within me sleeps.

-Ugo Foscolo "To Evening" 1803

I took an art history class my freshman year of college. I'd never seen a classic work of art, let alone could I discern meaning and symbolism from one. The only creative bone I had in my body was a love of writing. I dabbled in poetry, but mostly I knew prose. I talked to my RA (resident assistant) about it in my dorm. We had a funny relationship - best friends, but sometimes something more that lingered so far under the surface I feel that funny tickle of uncertainty even typing it now, so many years later. But there was always something between us that clicked. We often talked until five in the morning - him laying on his bunk, me on his couch that he typically used for mediation and to make residents feel comfortable with a glass of tea or water while he helped them work out a problem. On one of those late nights, we talked about art. He liked art, appreciated it, had some exposure to it. I wistfully wondered what it'd be like to know more about it, to be versed in it, to look at something and know, with clarity in your soul, that it was good, moving, touching. In true RA fashion, he encouraged me to register for a course the following semester. Art History 101. He even told me which professor was best. I laughed. I really laughed at it. I could barely afford to stay at school - I'd narrowly escaped having to pack my bags and dejectedly move back to Georgia because I didn't have the financial aid I needed. To tack on a class that wasn't necessary to graduate felt frivolous, ridiculous even. I registered for that course anyway. 

I loved most of my classes in college. I loved learning. But this art class is one of my favorites I took. I got lost every day in the giant auditorium, felt exhilarated walking into the art building on campus, surrounded by poetry and photographs on the walls, pottery and sculptures around me, murals hanging from the ceiling. I pretended to fit in, melded into the scene around me, felt like, I could be an artist in another life. The mix of Bohemian joy attached so freely to the idea of "artist" and the East Coast education and cultured upbringing that seems to imbibe every collection of art filled me with a desire to be something I wasn't, had never been, but could be? Maybe? It was the possibility of a world I'd never known and where it could take me that transfixed me. 

I learned a lot in my single art history class. I found that I studied more for it than the English classes I lived for, and the foreign policy classes that breathed new life into me. Because it was so new to me, so different and unnatural, I worked harder at it. I left the class with an "A," and an appreciation for works of art where none had been before. 

But in all the years since then, I've stepped foot into a gallery less than a handful of times. I've forgotten how easily a work of art can take me somewhere I've never been and make me feel like I've lived there all my life. I've forgotten that art can be a time machine and a transporter, an emotional outlet, and an intellectual pursuit. 

This weekend, I let photographs take me to Italy, and I didn't want to leave. I visited the Phillips Collection - a beautiful, astounding collection of modern art in D.C., specifically to see the "Next Stop: Italy," an exhibit of 12 photos by Italian photographers, each paired with words from an Italian poet. 

I dilly-dallied in Italy, forlorn for places I've never been, uplifted by trails that mirror my path - winding and blazed, faded and walked, brand new and untarnished. I went to Italy this weekend for the cost of $12 and a willingness to let my mind wander. It won't be so long, this time, until I let my novice enjoyment of art take me somewhere new.

if you go... 

phillips collection

next stop italy exhibit runs through 4/28/13

admission: $12

tryst coffee is served on the bottom level; i recommend a good book and a chai tea

also by me

what are you reading (offline, that is?) equals record