Great choruses of orange day lilies line the roads now. They arrive in troops, singing from their golden throats, their petals opening into fat, happy stars. I drive past them smiling, Somewhere in a corner of my mind, I hear ice cream truck music and my mouth is remembering the textures and tastes and cold of an orange creamsicle on a hot summer day when I rode my bike down the sandy road, dime in my pocket, to buy one. It’s the memories these wild lilies evoke that make us smile inside at the sight of them. We think that we take them for granted. But they bring memories to all our hearts of summer days like this one. That’s their gift.
Oh Yes! This is it! This is what we wanted, what we longed for the whole winter long, this summer day with a breeze pushing the tall grass and giant clouds transporting us back to our childhoods when we stretched out on the green fragrance and found circuses sailing overhead, when even the ants were a matter of utter fascination. Yes! This is it exactly. The perfect summer day. Oh, at last! Oh Yes. Oh Yes. Oh Yes.
I’m pouring my morning coffee when a motion catches my eye. Two fawns scamper from the woods to stand in the clearing at its edge. They graze on the grass and nibble leaves, pausing, heads raised, to survey the surrounding sights and sounds. Awareness is their only protection. That, and their speed. They can vanish in an instant. But they stay for maybe three minutes. Then they are gone, leaving me to think how lucky I am to live in a time and place where young deer can appear mere yards away. Like them, such a time can vanish in an instant. That’s the plan, you know. I sip my coffee and give thanks for this now, my mind still awed by the privilege of seeing baby deer.
It’s been nearly a decade now since a friend asked me to write “one of your letters” for her to give to her son as a graduation gift. I remember being honored by her request, and moved. I remember doing a lot of contemplation before I wrote it. Finally, the words came to me as if they were a gift of love. I thought they deserved to be shared.
This is what the letter to the young graduate said:
* * *
“You were born with potential. You were born with goodness and trust. You were born with ideals and dreams. You were born with greatness. You were born with wings. You are not meant for crawling, so don’t. You have wings. Learn to use them and fly.” ― Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
Rumi’s right, of course. But it’s hardly the whole story. This learning-to-fly business is no easy thing. Nor is it quickly learned.
For one thing, you have to want it—that ability to soar above the crowd. You have to keep fighting against the pull of mediocrity. You have to want freedom more than you want to belong.
Those ideals and dreams you have in your heart? Define them. Write down what you want and why and keep your reasons close at hand. You will need reminders when the headwinds are strong, when storms come. And storms will come.
No one succeeds without chalking up a list of failures. Don’t be afraid to fail. Be afraid of not trying to win. “Wisdom,” an old saying goes, “comes from experience. And experience comes from making mistakes.” There’s no shame in that. Setbacks and failures are life’s gifts to you, sent as corrections to your course. Be daring. Take risks.
Keep a good helping of forgiveness in your pocket. Mostly you’ll need it for yourself. It will keep you from tearing yourself down needlessly and will help you maintain your humility while you continue your upward climb.
Learn not to blame circumstances or other people when things go wrong. The key to success is the acceptance of full and complete responsibility for every choice you make and for every action you take, for your own response to whatever is happening. When you inadvertently hurt others, be quick to apologize and make amends.
To the best of your ability, maintain your health. Eat wisely. Exercise. Get sufficient sleep. Learn to relax. Adopt some form of meditation.
Maintain flexibility of thought. Consider opinions that oppose your own. Be willing, if it serves truth, to discard every belief you’ve ever held. Demand truth, whatever the consequences. And to the very best of your ability, be honest with yourself and others; that’s what the practice of truth demands.
Nevertheless, be kind. Be gracious and tactful. Allow others the respect and compassion they deserve. These are the hallmarks of genuine maturity and of leadership.
Take time in your life for pleasure and play. To be alive is a profound privilege. And your gratitude is best expressed through your laughter and your joy, through your appreciation of life’s beauty and goodness and fun.
Above all, vow to learn to love, as broadly and fully as you can. For love is the wind which lifts us, and the power that enables us to soar.
You have wings, my friend. Learn to use them, and fly.
Congratulations on all your magnificent successes thus far! You have honored yourself and your loving family and made all of us better with all that you have achieved.
This is the day of long light, the birthday of summer. Drink it in. Let it glide into your eyes and slide into your pores. Lick it with your tongue, feel it seep into your cells and flow through your veins, this sustainer of life, this spirit of fiery joy.
Celebrate its dawn; embrace its high noon. Float in the glow of its dusk until the stars rise and the fireflies sparkle the night in its honor. This is the day of long light, the birthday of summer. May our hearts dance with it, and be glad.
I thank you for waking the earth again, for gifting it with flowers and robins and fawns, with ferns and the tender baby leaves of trees, with lambs and baby goats and donkeys. And all of it well-established now and ready to unfold and grow. Thank you for melting away winter’s frozen world, for replacing the cold with balmy bare-armed days, and soft air filled with birdsong. Thank you for rain, and puddles, and rushing streams. Thank you for thunderstorms and great winds, and for your torrid foretastes of summer. You did it all! And now you leave me with this parting gift, this pure and tender flower. I will remember you always, dear Springtime. Thank you. Thank you. Farewell.
The Joe Pye weeds are tall now, rising almost over the top of my head. In their centers, at last, I can see their buds, still swaddled in leaves. I can almost feel the energy feeding them, their whiskery petals pushing toward the light, eager to unfold. “Great job!” I tell them. “Keep going!” I imagine the dusky pink of their blossoms, buzzing with visiting bees who drink their fill. “Keep going!” I say again. “You’re going to be so beautiful and so loved!”
The world is an ocean of green now, lush and full, emerging in a hundred shapes and shades everywhere my eyes can see. I breathe its perfume. I drink in the rain-washed air that tastes of summer, here on this hot, moist day.
The rains coaxed open the astilbe. Its foamy lace dances in sprays white as snow atop the waves of green. My eyes scoop it up and crinkle in a smile at its delicate light. And the heat of the day disappears.
Even as it took its leave, the storm showed its power. For the last two days, rain has fallen in heavy sheets on the parched fields, the sky flashing with lightning and roaring with thunder so loud that it set dogs and their masters alike cowering in apprehension.
It was noon of the second day before I saw the first patch of blue sky. Driving past the fields, revived now and green, I stared in silence at the sky as the tail of the storm sailed overhead like some majestic ancient navy, armed for war and dwarfing the vista that, just days before, had seemed to stretch on forever.
The old covered bridges are rare now, but loved and cared for with a nostalgia-laced reverence. When you walk through one, you can almost hear the sound of horse hooves and wagon wheels echoing up from the worn wooden floor. You imagine the horses, the travelers, leaning into a moment of relief from the sun’s glare, from the rain, from the sleet and snow. Even the horse feels it. The windows are cut high to shield the rushing river from the horse’s view. Only his ears and nose tell him what lies beneath the solid planks beneath his hooves. He is unafraid. He never loses his rhythm. You know this just by walking through the bridge. It holds its memories well and whispers them unceasingly to lucky passersby, and to the river.
