The First Time

It is the dead of summer in the deep South. Always warm, now the days scorch us with blistering sun and drench us with humidity. Wet underwear is the gift (Ha!) of even an early morning walk.

As the heat lessens somewhat and the shelter of shadows lengthen, the late afternoons become a good time to run errands, dog-walk and water drooping flowers. Yesterday, I stepped outside to grab that last bag of groceries. It was late for shopping, even in this heat. I was stopped by cicada’s song. It was overwhelmingly beautiful. It reverberated around me in a cocoon of sound. Loud. Reverent. A symphony.

Suddenly, I was transported back to my childhood. Playing tag with my brothers just before dark, letting fireflies light on my fingers, the velvet dark a secret place. Golden lit windows were beacons of all that waited inside…dinner, parents, cool sheets. But outside. Outside. Fragrant, sharp smell of cut grass, honeysuckle sweet on the lips, tomatoes bursting with tangy juice running down my chin. All that and more, rushing back to me in that moment.

This morning, though still hot, I felt (sensed, smelled?) the first tingle of fall on an unexpected, errant wind.

They say if you really live in every moment, experience what you observe and feel as if for the first time, every time, it is grace.

Wow. Those cicadas.

magical dragonfly

The Soul should always stand ajar
That if the Heaven inquire
He will not be obliged to wait
                                -Emily Dickinson (1055, 1896)