Summer wasted no time. It was clear first thing in the morning that she meant business. Thick fog was rising from the field as if it the sun was inhaling it for breakfast. When I went out to feed the birds the air was heavy and still. It clung to your skin like plastic wrap. Not a leaf moved. The sun turned it up. You could feel the air grow hotter by the minute.
In the afternoon, Bob called. “The angels are bowling out here and they even spilled a little of their drinks,” he said. I scurried to get the flag and canvas chairs from the porch. Then, all excited, I sat on the front steps, looking west through the trees, waiting. And waiting. And waiting. For a minute a batch of clouds raced in. The wind blew. The trees danced. To the northeast, a peal of distant thunder rolled across the sky. And that was it. Nothing more, except a blessed little breeze. Tonight it will be clear, with fireflies.
Kaboom! It’s summer, with all its sizzle and glory, come to pare us down to our essence, to burn away all that’s unneeded, all that doesn’t belong. Come with its vivid splendor and bright hues, with its dazzling contrasts of light and shade, of sweat and leisure, of hard work and hard play, of steamy heat and pouring rain. Summer, where dreams are conceived and brought to fruition. Summer, pulling us on to become all we can be, giving us our best chances, singing light.
Trilling one final grace note, a gift of welcoming for summer, a gift of appreciation for all who love her so, spring sings her farewell, gliding westward to ride the sun over the horizon. Behind her, a trail of flowers, delicate, bold, spicy and sweet, colors the sky, and we watch until stars and fireflies rise, our hearts filled with gratitude for all sweet spring bestowed.
Sometimes, Daddy, when I walk in the deep woods, I remember the time you drove Mom and me up to your hunting cabin, a little wooden shack you shared with Mike and Okie every winter when you went to hunt for deer. I was five. The cabin, you said, was near Rose City, a name that created wondrous images in my young mind. It turned out there were no roses there. But there was a woods that lined the road for miles. Then we followed two dusty ruts, nearly overgrown, for miles more. The cabin was one big room with bunk beds, an ice box, and a big iron stove. Mom stayed there to clean things up while you took me on a long walk into the woods, pointing out the rabbit scat and the poison ivy, telling me how you would sit in the snow there for hours watching for a buck to come along. It was all so green, and the trees were thick and towered to the sky. We listened to them whispering to each other, and to the birds and chattering squirrels. I had no idea how to get back to the cabin. But I was never afraid. Because you were there. And you were strong and brave and a hunter, and you knew everything. I loved you then for taking me to this secret, magical place. I love you now, even though you are gone. And often, when I walk in the deep woods, I feel you beside me, and I am never afraid.
The wild grass conforms to no law except the law of the dance. It surrenders authority to nothing but joy, to the Great Yes of being, and to that it bows knowing that it governs its creations with knowledge and love, and is beneficent in all its ways.
One summer, I happened to be working from my home. From the second floor window where my office was located I could gaze out at my field, across the road from my house.
One day when I glanced up from my work, I was surprised to see an old station wagon parked on the grassy right of way that borders my field. An old fellah in a straw hat was standing about ten feet into my field, filling quart baskets with black raspberries that he was picking. The berries were abundant that year and just at their peak. I watched him fill basket after basket and tuck them in this car.
I was rather taken aback that some stranger would feel free to drive onto my property and help himself to my berry crop. How did he know the berries were there? Was he planning to sell them? Just across the state line a big home-grown produce stand sat at the highway’s edge. I was debating with myself whether to hike down to the field to confront him when he finished his picking and drove off, heading for Ohio.
I told myself no harm was done. Plenty of berries remained for the birds and I probably wasn’t going to pick them myself since another patch on the south hill was closer to my house.
But then, the next day, there he was again! And this time he had a woman with him and a little dog, and they seemed to be making a day of it, picking basket after basket of my berries. “What nerve!” I thought to myself. Not only were they trespassing, they maybe were stealing from me for their own profit. I definitely had to go see what they had to say for themselves. I was getting a bit miffed. And I don’t like to be upset.
As I pulled on my jeans and boots for my hike into the field, I happened to ask how else I could look at the situation. That’s when the miracle happened. I suddenly realized that had I known this couple, had they been my friends, I would be more than happy to have them take all the berries they wanted. The obvious solution then was to make friends with them. And I approached them with that intention, smiling and waving as I walked toward them.
It turned out they were a sweet old pair. And when they found out they weren’t in the field that belonged to their Ohio neighbor, who happened to own the field behind mine, they were absolutely mortified. They apologized over and over again while I assured them there was no need. It was a completely understandable mistake. The old man insisted I take the last two quarts of picked berries that he held in his hands, and I thanked him for the gift and told him they were welcome to take all they wanted. But so great was their embarrassment that they soon left, never to return again.
You might think that was the end of the story, my little parable about how a change of perspective can change your whole world. But wait! There’s more . . .
It was the middle of December and I had just finished hanging the last of my Christmas decorations when there was a knock on my door. It surprised me. I wasn’t expecting any guests.
When I opened the door, there was the raspberry thief, grinning, with gifts in his hands. His wife had baked a pie for me with berries from my field. The pie was spectacular, looking as if it had just sprung to life from the cover of a magazine. And then he set a bottle of homemade black raspberry wine on my kitchen counter, wishing me a Merry Christmas and thanking me for my kindness to him and his wife. And both the pie and the wine, I must say, were the finest I ever tasted.
I never saw the couple again after that. But I savor the memory, a tale of kindness returned, every Christmas when I hang my decorations and each summer when the black raspberries are ripe for picking.
It’s my favorite summer sitting place with its canopy of spruce boughs and the endless green. On days like today, when a breeze whispers through, all the trees waltz to its song. In the morning, the air is filled with bird song. At night, fireflies sparkle, their lights floating all the way up to the tops of the trees and beyond until they look like shooting stars.
Memories float up from the weathered pine floor, stored over thirty-some years, a parade of dear ones, conversations, confessions, laughter, comfortable stretches of silence, dogs, cats, once, a painted turtle. Mostly it’s just me, my thoughts adrift in the spaciousness, the Yes of it, wrapped in sweet contentment, drinking its deep joy.
At the edge of the lake the water iris sings ringed by reeds from which her golden sisters grow. Behind her a deep patch of wild forget-me-nots bob in the afternoon sun, calling her to our attention, as if her beauty could be missed, as if we would not hear her song.
Hot breezes blow, a foretaste of summer. The heat awakens the catalpa’s buds, and suddenly they burst into hundreds of blossoms, white and ruffled, clustered among the tree’s large, heart-shaped leaves. You could imagine they were mounds of snow or ice cream if you were longing for relief from the day’s fiery air. The sight of them is alone enough to cool you. Such is their grace, offering refreshment, just when we need it the most,
I leave the novel I’m reading on the porch where I’ve been enjoying the sun, the wisps of high cloud, a robin’s song, and go inside to answer the phone. It’s Bob, a friend who lives ten miles to the west of me. Get on your bikini, he says. I’m grabbing the boat. You got whole barrels of rain coming your way. No way, I say. But when I go back out, a wall of clouds thicker than tar is racing in from the west, gobbling up the sky as it goes. The birds are wild with warnings. I grab my book and things that might fly away—the tablecloth, the potted plant, the plastic chairs—and run inside, beating the downpour by seconds. I put the plant in its accustomed spot and watch the scene melt through my rain-pelted window. Who needs a novel when the world itself offers such tumultuous drama!
