So much is forgotten in these ripe days of our summer together: emails and efficiency, grocery shopping, the world beyond our gate, where we went wrong. On the table are a few scraps of cloth, snips of thread. So you see, something is made by hand here and there, now and then. As much of a surprise as the sweet purple tomatoes from the garden I had been despairing of. On my piano I make something like music, and the girls call me the piano queen. I will miss them when school starts, miss these long days home where I sometimes wonder “Who are these beasties and what on earth can be done to get them to stop screaming?” I feed them the twelfth peach of the day, sweep the floor, stop fretting that we didn’t do enough jump-roping before first grade starts, let them bring home those pink little ponies from the neighbor’s yardsale. I wonder what it is I will do with myself when the hush of fall arrives.
On the road this summer, camping in the far northern reaches of this mountain range we live at the tail of, my husband and I sang together in the darkness of night. We’d forgotten all the song books, but his fingers knew the way across the guitar strings, and we knew enough lyrics to fill each night with music. Who can say whether those songs were a seed planted or a seed bursting forth. I can say only that it is good to remember that our gardens are wild places, in the end, and we do not really know what our faithfulness in tending them is for, or even how best to do it.
I came home from that trip washed clean in the way that happens when we step outside the lines of our days. I looked at the clothes in my closet, the messages on my answering maching, the events on the calendar’s days, and wondered “Whose life is this?” It would be nice to know what it all is for, what comes next, the answer to every need. Instead, we find our way across the strings, and see what music will come of it.