My brain has been dulled by a frantic search for unwritten words; I’ve been fooled by the calendar and its desire to propel me forward toward self-imposed deadlines. The leap-frog days of July and August have ushered summer off the stage, because that’s what days do. They usher in busyness.
On cue, school buses rev their engines, football stadiums open their doors, and mulch flyers find their way to our doorsteps. Candy corn is back on the store shelves. The woodpile has been stocked. It must be autumn.
But apparently, Nature does not use a calendar. Nor does Nature rush. So, this afternoon, when I could have been writing, I instead found myself lying on a park bench by the pond—eyes closed, pen lost—letting the sun bake my to-do list as if it were a bonfire marshmallow. I savored the rustling of the lush green trees, which showed no sign of changing color, and the gentle clucking of the ducks and geese, who seemed in no hurry to leave. I breathed in a summer bouquet: grilled steaks, roses in bloom, and freshly mowed grass. For the first time in months, I just rested. It took valiant resolve to rouse myself at sunset and head home.
Tonight I lie awake, listening to the symphony outside my open window as crickets and toads toast the glorious moon. I’m pulled from my bed, enticed by their joy. Telling myself I’m going to regret this in the morning, I quietly slip outside to listen to the concert and stare at the stars. There’s a soft rustling in the trees as they sway—perhaps we’re listening to the same song. Nope, I won’t regret this.
It has been a lovely day. A lovely, summer day. And in this peace, in the quiet of God’s amazing display of beauty and perfection, at last, the words come.