Sandcastles.

To see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.- William Blake

Yesterday we went to the mall to buy a pair of shorts for the angel. The store didn’t have any shorts, but they were fully stocked in sweatshirts and back-to-school gear. The countdown to the end of summer and beginning of school has started. Didn’t we just finish counting down to the end of school and the beginning of summer? I won’t join this countdown because I want my now.

I don’t always want my now. The end of summer brings with it an autumnal adherence to clock and calendar, shorter days, and a tumble down whatever meager distance I’ve managed to climb on Health Mountain. December is dark. January finds me at the bottom of the mountain, heaped in pieces and hungry for air and energy. I wish I could accept and fully inhabit all the moments of my life, but rough roads and darkness send my mind traveling to the past, the future, and anywhere but the here and now.

Now, though, I am here. And summer isn’t over. So I’m moving slowly, trying to make summer last as long as possible.  I’m enjoying the long light and scooping the sand of small pleasures into my little plastic bucket of a heart. Storing up for winter.

Where are you today? Are you wanting your now? 

———————-

Today’s poem is for nothing.

The Dogs at Live Oak Beach, Santa Cruz by Alicia Ostriker

As if there could be a world

of absolute innocence

in which we forget ourselves…

Gone fishin.

I’m going away for a few days.

For the first time in a long time, the trip will be for pleasure. I’m hoping to learn how to relax again. I’m hoping that relaxation is a skill similar to bike riding: once you’ve done it, even if you haven’t done it in years, all you need is a little push to get going again.

S and I will drop the angel and the dog off at grandma and grandpa’s where they will be well fed, well rested, and well taken care of.  I hear there are plans for a visit to the hair salon (for the angel, not the dog), and a visit to Staples, because both the angel and her grandma are nuts about index cards, markers, white erase boards, notebooks, and pens.

After the big hand off, we’ll continue on down the road, driving to a remote hut in the desert to reunite with a few friends. Our gathering has become a tradition. I’m not one for traditions, and I don’t like holidays much either– I prefer the small, unexpected pleasures of an ordinary day– but this happens to be one celebration I’m happy to break out the streamers for.

My packing list consists of the usual truckload of medications,

sweatpants and flip-flops,

a stack of books,

and this:

.

We’ll drink to health, to traditions worth holding on to, and to bare weekends made of piles of books, chips to dip in just-cut salsa, and the rare luxury of sitting down together without a plan or a to do list, the sun above us our only timekeeper .

Salud.

———————

In praise of sun and sweet idle.

Today’s poem: (click on link to read poem in its entirety)

Soaking Up Sun by Tom Hennen

Today there is the kind of sunshine old men love…