In the final chords of the grand symphony of the school year. A staff meeting today in my home, a farewell staff luncheon tomorrow, I can feel the cadence approaching as all the instruments re-enter to sound those definitive crashing tones that put the exclamation point on the long sentence of the year. And if all goes well— if I finish my report cards before the V chord hits the I, clean the corner of the music room, make sure all the proper mallets are in their bins— then the space is cleared for new music to begin, the first tentative notes of a summer ahead.
Today the bluebird came to my window and I took time to converse with him. Out on the deck, I noticed the hummingbird circling and heard its beating wings. I spent a few moments gazing into the green-leaved trees instead of looking at the clock. I opened my ears to listen to the hum of traffic and the distant barking dog.
Summer. Time to scale down from the opera of hundreds of kids and teachers knee-deep in the human drama and enter the small haiku of bugs and plants and sun peeking through fog. Time to slow the lists and sharpen the attention to the things that whisper “We’re here,” time to turn down the volume of the headlines that shout, all that pomp and circumstance, that sound and fury so empty at heart. Time to swing in the hammock of nothing particular to do and take a trip in a book. Or a bike or just start walking with no particular place to go.