Wednesday poem

In loving memory of my father (9.11.1958 - 6.15.2012) and my grandfather (2.07.1934 - 12.11.2012).

The dead are always looking down on us, they say,
while we are putting on our shoes, or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.

They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down on a couch or in a field,
drugged, perhaps, by the hum of a long afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them

which makes them lift their oars, and fall silent,
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.

Billy Collins

creature comforts

The process of becoming an "adult" and gradually taking on greater responsibility for my personal expenditures has meant that I am much less prone these days to spend money on sweet nothings. But since I was little, I've felt a magical pull toward certain objects that seem to have their own character or personality, particularly if these objects speak to my inner home body--like warm socks, wool sweaters, or well-worn books. It's these homey items that I can never resist taking home with me. And that's what happened when I found these little cuties in a little shoe store in Bethesda. They are made from soft leather and canvas, with apparent stitches. Their simple, unfinished appearance is friendly. And they are quiet.

These shoes are special because of what they evoke in me--a long-lost sense of childhood, with its cozy routines, its simple pleasures and tiny, everyday adventures. When the weather gets colder, I'm going to put on these shoes and go crunching around in the autumn leaves. New shoes for a new adventure, and for a big Olga who still wishes she were small.


 

Sunday morning

Three months since my move to Washington, DC, I've decided to start a blog. Yes, it's about time.

Sunday mornings at the "U Street Mansion" mean classical music and languid sifting through the Sunday Post, signs of what we like to think is a refined household. My four housemates and I range from the artsy (graphic designer, swing dancer) to the athletic. Our collective resume includes positions at CNN, the Holocaust Memorial Museum, the American Geophysical Union, the National Democratic Institute and the Department of Homeland Security.

We live in a brownstone Victorian home built in 1905, a three-story old beauty with narrow creaking stairs and a stubborn gas stove. Our porch opens up to a secret garden, a former cement lot transformed into a green haven by the initiative of our neighbors. I have come to love this home, and the people in it, dearly.

This music is playing as I type. Outside, a slow, gentle rain. The beginning of the end to another precious summer weekend.