Monthly Archives: July 2012

If I might reflect. There’s a necessity to this cycle. The longing and the desire for the gentle motion of the leaves in the fall, the cool breeze and the crisp flavors of the fall is only amplified by a summer so sweltering that the sweat falls down your spine and presses your shirt against your skin.

In the same way that the fall begs for the comfort of the slow-falling snow and the peace that family close and a fire burning brings on the winter night, the way that late ice storms bring a longing for the fresh taste of budding plants and a cool morning that promises glimmers of summer past, when the shadows stretch long into the night that carry over ideas of autumn…

There’s a cycle to these seasons. A necessity. And the deeper the summer digs, the hotter the days, the richer the fall. And my longing for it. The glow between the teeth on the pumpkin is brighter after days over ninety.

You can draw connection all you like to death and rebirth, the necessity of the cycle, the way that one half of the whole creates the desire of the other, the need for the evil along with the good, the way that the lamp amplifies the shadows that slink around it. Your wonder at your dead relative in their coffin, and your vision of them in the night,

But right now I just wait for October.

Necessity of the Summer

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Exhaustion

Emotionally and physically exhausted.

Days spent teaching gifted students art. Expression. The meaning and value of true art. What lies beneath. Their work astounds me.

Nights and evenings entertaining and giving it all so that they can be filled. Filled with whatever they call it. The “Glow,” love, friendship, acceptance. Magic.

Last night, fist pumping excitement all day and hourly countdowns. Sitting in the theater with my hands clenched in fists for two and a half hours while a theater sixty miles south sat with hands clenched in fists for the rest of the night. Some, the rest of their

And this morning with my dear friend while she taught, worries clenching and unclenching with every passing

Second.

The end

Of this camp tonight. My tenth graders finish their stay with tears in their eyes and on cheeks and with hugs and sobs.

Two days ago I draw the death card and the reaper against red sky and scythe, that butterfly curling against his cocoon, and I say “This is not a bad card. This is hope.”

Yesterday evening walking behind fifty kids leaving our end of session banquet and seeing the street lamps flicker on as darkness fell

While beneath they wandered through the trees unknowing.

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