The Scream by Edvard Munch
Although the autumnal equinox doesn't come for couple of weeks summer is, for all intents and purposes...over.
Sad.
Summer is my very favorite season. For lots of reasons I suppose. Maybe there is some throwback to childhood summers when fun and play were the order of the day. Or maybe it is that when my own children were in school, summer was our time to just goof around. I like flowers. And heat. And chirping crickets. I like it all and I set my intentions on enjoying it. Except somehow, this summer didn't seem nearly as delightful as I had hoped.
There were a number of reasons for that, really. Some were self-imposed, like taking on far too much work all at once. I forgot about that boundary setting business. Some were God imposed, like rain. Every. Single. Day. Rain is nice and all, but too much of a good thing gets burdensome. Some were externally imposed, like horrific news events that make me think everyone has gone certifiably insane.
It was a tough summer.
I wasn't entirely ready for Anna to return to school when she did; it seemed to come up far too quickly. Nevertheless, we drove her to another state, got her settled, and returned home in early August. I felt sad. In the following week I was working a million hours everyday to meet deadlines. It rained. Every. Single. Day. There were riots in Missouri and reports of Robin Williams' suicide. Russia invaded Ukraine. Ebola was ravaging West Africa and hopeless refugees were trapped atop Mount Sinjar. A friend's son had just died tragically in the prime of his life and other friends were coming to terms with their son's incurable brain tumor.
It was a very tough summer.
One afternoon that week, amid all the soberness, I stopped at the little market in my neighborhood to buy some fresh produce. Lemons were on my list and as I approached the stand where they were displayed in mounds of yellow, I saw a young woman and her two small children stationed in front of them. The woman was deeply engaged in a conversation with her son. I'm not sure what they were talking about...maybe the merits of citrus or the dangers of scurvy. I don't know, but the little girl was seemingly unnoticed for those few minutes. Left to her own devices she did what anyone would do I suppose. Or maybe what I hope we would all do. She started singing.
To the nearby limes.
It started off as a simple little song. I didn't recognize the tune. In fact, it was rather avant garde with its dissonant notes, uneven rhythm, and lack of any discernible rhyming patterns. Before long the girl became quite impassioned and the song took on a decidedly loving tone. She loved those limes. Everybody loved those limes. Limes were the best thing in the world. In fact, all existential meaning in life could be found in those simple limes.
Okay. She didn't sing that last part. But she might as well have. I just stood and listened as she sang her limey love song with every bit of her soul. I smiled. My spirit lifted. And yes, she was in my way and I couldn't reach the lemons.
But it didn't matter. I appreciated her zeal for the limes so much that I didn't really need to reach the lemons at that very moment. Somehow, amid the fatigue and tragedy and sadness, the little lime crooner gave me hope.
No, her song didn't change anything that had weighed down my spirit that week. It didn't end hatefulness. It didn't cure cancer. It didn't make tragedy less painful.
It did remind me, however, that love is more powerful than hate. That joy is more powerful than sorrow. That all people...and all limes...need to feel loved. As long as there is love there is hope.
The little girl reminded me that we would all benefit by singing words of love to the limes.
And to one another.
There were a number of reasons for that, really. Some were self-imposed, like taking on far too much work all at once. I forgot about that boundary setting business. Some were God imposed, like rain. Every. Single. Day. Rain is nice and all, but too much of a good thing gets burdensome. Some were externally imposed, like horrific news events that make me think everyone has gone certifiably insane.
It was a tough summer.
I wasn't entirely ready for Anna to return to school when she did; it seemed to come up far too quickly. Nevertheless, we drove her to another state, got her settled, and returned home in early August. I felt sad. In the following week I was working a million hours everyday to meet deadlines. It rained. Every. Single. Day. There were riots in Missouri and reports of Robin Williams' suicide. Russia invaded Ukraine. Ebola was ravaging West Africa and hopeless refugees were trapped atop Mount Sinjar. A friend's son had just died tragically in the prime of his life and other friends were coming to terms with their son's incurable brain tumor.
It was a very tough summer.
One afternoon that week, amid all the soberness, I stopped at the little market in my neighborhood to buy some fresh produce. Lemons were on my list and as I approached the stand where they were displayed in mounds of yellow, I saw a young woman and her two small children stationed in front of them. The woman was deeply engaged in a conversation with her son. I'm not sure what they were talking about...maybe the merits of citrus or the dangers of scurvy. I don't know, but the little girl was seemingly unnoticed for those few minutes. Left to her own devices she did what anyone would do I suppose. Or maybe what I hope we would all do. She started singing.
To the nearby limes.
It started off as a simple little song. I didn't recognize the tune. In fact, it was rather avant garde with its dissonant notes, uneven rhythm, and lack of any discernible rhyming patterns. Before long the girl became quite impassioned and the song took on a decidedly loving tone. She loved those limes. Everybody loved those limes. Limes were the best thing in the world. In fact, all existential meaning in life could be found in those simple limes.
Okay. She didn't sing that last part. But she might as well have. I just stood and listened as she sang her limey love song with every bit of her soul. I smiled. My spirit lifted. And yes, she was in my way and I couldn't reach the lemons.
But it didn't matter. I appreciated her zeal for the limes so much that I didn't really need to reach the lemons at that very moment. Somehow, amid the fatigue and tragedy and sadness, the little lime crooner gave me hope.
No, her song didn't change anything that had weighed down my spirit that week. It didn't end hatefulness. It didn't cure cancer. It didn't make tragedy less painful.
It did remind me, however, that love is more powerful than hate. That joy is more powerful than sorrow. That all people...and all limes...need to feel loved. As long as there is love there is hope.
The little girl reminded me that we would all benefit by singing words of love to the limes.
And to one another.
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