Becoming Summer
The western sky is showing that familiar evening pattern, horizontal bands of alternating baby-blue sky and bright pink clouds as the sun descends over the mountains. From my perch in the upstairs office as I type this blog, I’m gazing out the window at that patch of sky framed in by the verdant green of our elm trees, now in full summer foliage.These are the longest days of the year and there’s more than enough daylight to go around. From now until the middle of June, which is really just around the corner, we can take our time to revel in these early mornings and long evening hours.
It’s hard to believe that five months have already passed since we first met with Jude. In the days after that pinky swear we made to each other when we committed to this path, there was still ice on the ground each morning. Coming out from under the winter, springtime was a breath of fresh air; the crocuses came up in the days before we met our new group of friends on this journey. And then the nest building began and still continues.
It seems apt that we have now emerged from that first phase of spring—through all the photo collecting and storytelling to at last cast our bottle of hope into the ocean—and we find ourselves now in the early summer heat. The next new season is now upon us as we wait, sometimes in the doldrums but more often, honestly, with wind in our sails.
I was recently telling a former coworker and friend of mine about a family of blue jays that, for some reason or another, recently decided to make a home in that elm tree in the back. We first became aware of this as we lay in bed at 5.30, already wide awake as the sun rose over the tops of the eastern houses, and listened to the morning drama in the high branches. Two fully feathered blue and white adults were patiently (and noisily I might add) coaching another two stout and fuzzy little bluebirds in what seemed to be the final phase of flight lessons for the season. A few loud squacks, accompanied by fervent wing beating and a loud rustling of leaves, and they would all set off for the neighbors’ aspen. It seemed to take a tremendous amount of courage. A brave new world was only 30 feet away, but through the unknown sky and with only newly formed wings to carry them, it must have been quite the leap of faith.
In my email to my coworker I mentioned how inspiring those birds were for us. But at the time I wasn’t quite sure of what I even meant. Of course now it makes perfect sense as I type this and think it through. We can learn a lot from nature.
As I shared that story with her, she replied that she often wondered how her parents felt when they adopted her. It was the first time she’d mentioned her adoption story to me and, whether she planned it that way or not, the revelation came at the perfect time. I felt truly supported in our path once again. I love those moments.
A particularly relevant phrase comes to mind these days. It’s something I think I must have read on a fortune cookie or something: “Uncertainty is an uncomfortable position but certainty is an absurd one.”* I’m not sure what that sky can tell us with its bands of boy and girl colors. Maybe we could tell the future if we tried hard enough to count the petals on the asters in our garden. But rather than calculate the uncertainty of the universe and try to decypher its myriad permutations and algorythms, I suppose we’ll just enjoy the wondering for now, day to day. The summer is a fine time for trying our wings out on those short, intense journeys from tree to tree. Another summer is stretching out in front of us as we walk along doing our best to hold each other as often as we can through each day together.
*Come to think of it, I don’t know how often Voltaire is quoted on a fortune cookie. Must have been a tea bag.
