To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down,and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. ( Ecclesiastes, KJV)
Summer arrived this week, and in our neck of the woods, it arrived in the midst of major rains, storms, wind, lightnin’ and thunder, and flooded roads. We happened to be at an RV park at the Shore to greet the Solstice, and we sat in RVs perched atop a flooded plain, lonely metal islands reflected in the flood waters covering much of the park. And my sister, who’s minding the farm, called to say, that yep, the nearby lake had flooded and taken out our farm lane.
Summer. Summertime, and the livin’ is (supposedly) easy. Everything buzzes and hums — birds are flitting about, dive-bombing unwary cats (or husbands) who happen by bird-babies learning to fly. Insects are swarming, and it’s time to wear white socks well-lacquered down with Deet to avoid the voracious ticks and fleas that lurk in our woods. Mosquitoes breed happily in all that standing water, while news folks do their best to paint dreadful warnings about all the diseases their tiny little bodies carry. Growth is rampant — what with all the rain, everything is a green tangle of vines, briars, flowers, vegetables, and weeds. The sultriness of heat and humidity at its peak — the time of lushness, fullness, ripening . . .
Summer. Life is burgeoning — I suspect rats have set up housekeeping in the barn (a single female can produce 10 litters 10 times a year, which means that one pair of rats has the potential of adding 350 million offspring in three years — ack!) Japanese beetles will soon make their appearance, and proceed to chomp and chow down anything left by the wet-weather snails and slugs — except the weeds. Giant clouds of pesky gnats swarm eagerly to exposed flesh, and newborn kittens and humongous zucchinis alike appear as if by magic, dropped off by unseen donors.
Summer. The days have lengthened until long, hot days invite hammock or beach time. Sweat. Laziness. Frustrations. Hot tempers. Vacations. Family reunions. Picnics. Yard sales. Wet bathing suits and mildewing towels. Mold growing in your basement.
Summer. Life that won’t be controlled according to our careful designs. A season of rapid growth and change when you’re just not sure what’s gonna happen. Beauty amidst chaos.
Summer just doesn’t happen in our outer, physical worlds, but in our inner journeys as well. The wonderful, but sometimes too-muchness of life. . . Maybe summertime angels are those whose only job is to make sure we don’t get too comfortable and fall asleep and miss our lives. And maybe when they make their appearance, the best we can do is hang on for an adventure and without a doubt, a bumpy ride. What helps during this season of rapid growth and change in the inner as well as the outer? Being gentle with yourself and everyone around you. Following that wonderful old piece of advice: be kind, everyone is having a difficult time. Lightening up. Softening up. Loosening the tangles. Letting go of the need to control people or events. Becoming one with the dusty (or right now, muddy) world.
Laughter.
And treating yourself with compassion, and appreciating the rare and precious person that you are. One of a kind. With your own guardian angel, your own precious soul, which is doubtlessly summoning you to an adventure of which you haven’t even dreamed.
That could be darned scary. Or maybe ultimately frustrating when you’ve got plans of your own. But a summons from the soul? What could be better than that?
Summer . . .
. . . And always, underneath, something grows . . . Outside the rows of the planned for . . . Waken me, please, to the exquisite, elegant weed.