The Summer Day

Perfectly true, on this summer day.


The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

"The Summer Day" by Mary Oliver, from The Truro Bear and Other Adventures: Poems and Essays. © Beacon Press, 2008.

...

I notice, looking over last several posts, that I'm a fan of the ellipse.

Not Complaining... Much

The weather, which had brought us the coldest spring in many years (colder than Siberia, we were told), has turned. Yesterday it got into the high 80's, today we'll hit 90.

I shouldn't complain. Summer, right? It's supposed to be warm.

Unfortunately, I am a wilting flower who only blooms in the 70's.

The GOOD thing about the heat, is that it will start getting the lake heated to a tolerable temperature. This afternoon the plan is to take my first swim in preparation for the July 26th tri I've committed to. I will be wetsuited, but 64 degrees is still pretty cold.

Surfacing... again.

I'm here! I'm alive! Where the hell did 4 months go?

This is where I've been for the last few months. I PM'ed a major redesign of the site and worked harder than I have in my ENTIRE life. Harder, actually, than I want to work EVER again. But it's done, and I have my evenings and weekends back again. And it's good.

And yes, the irony of working for that particular client is not lost on me. If any of my co-workers (whom I love dearly) find their way here and discover my secret, I can only hope that my dedication prompts them to forgive my inability to forego that which I dearly love. The heart wants what it wants.