Needed a cheerfuller post than yesterday’s. The title may sound ominous, but it only means that I’m trying to wring the truth out of myself. Susan Wooldrige called it opening the window, but I wanted to be more original and July-ish.
So, this is sort of a poem.
Days are too short though the sun sets after 9:00 P.M. By 11:00 I’m so tired I can’t face tomorrow.
Days are too short though I wake at 5:00 A.M. and try, for thirty minutes, to force myself back to sleep till 7:00.
Polly
Days are too short for an energetic puppy–beautiful white face, dark nose, dark eyes. Inquisitive disposition. “It took this bush I’m trying to chew up how many years to grow this size? I did it in one year!”
Maggie
Days are too short for a beautiful white-faced ten-and-a-half-year-old dog who, every day I wonder, “How much longer will she be with us?” So does she as she looks at that lively, inconsiderate pup.
Next door
It’s July’s first day and there will never be enough time. Never. And yet. How long does it take to enjoy the cream-colored sunlight casting the apple tree’s shadow on the side of a building? Or the utterly, utterly blue sky above it? There’s enough time for that. The feel of the cool grass beneath my feet. Bird flight, frenzied, above.
I stare up into the arms of the maple tree I planted–two? three?–years ago. Laughter ignites and sputters up like a sparkler as I think of that Bobby Goldsboro song that starts out “See the tree how big it’s grown . . .” But, yes, see it. Huge, tall, inspiring. How can I not think I’ve done something good in my life?
The days are too short to miss filling my soul with the quiet beauty of all the world around me, to write some of it down on paper, to capture some of it with a camera.
My favorite self portraits are the things I write, the photos I take, with me on the outside of the paper, me on the back side of the camera. Want to see me? See what I see, how I see it. It’s supposed to be my writer’s job to wring the experience from myself and from my reader (self included).
The day is so short, so I must let it go while at the same time grabbing it. Let it be yet wring from it everything I can see and feel, appreciate and enjoy.
My wish for self-freedom creeps up on me–cool air rising from the grass, peace purchased through stillness. More day, more night, more life. This is peace. In peace I find the greatest freedom.