The world is immersing itself in the great global distraction of the Summer Olympics. The stories, heroes and heroines, the magic of unexpected wins and the distraught losses…we plug in faithfully, perhaps to drown our anxiety and sorrows. We will attempt to play well with each other for two weeks or so and then return to hot summer days and muggy nights riddled with bullets, bloodshed and, in America, the brandishing of political swords.
Amidst this landscape of life, my ears are attuned to the song of crickets and cicada, the sign that August is in full bloom.
The Queen Anne’s lace edges the neighborhood lawns like a Gibson Girl gown.
The moon is on the wax and my heart beats to the rhythm of the memory of years of Augusts spent preparing for a new year of school.
Soon the elementary yard down the path will ring out with children’s songs and play bantering and the sun will shine warmly on my Friday walks.
My days of classwork and mothering student aged children have passed into distant days. But the beauty of the lace, the etude of the August insects, and the memories thick and sweet as honey, vault and leap within my mind. Their golden glow elicits a prayer of thanks, a wondering of the bi-polar-ness of life, and I know I have won the prize.