Like my students and fellow educators, I have been on summer vacation this past week. I didn’t do much in terms of travel or learning. My goal was simply to listen and look more, and to try to speak less. I was doing so well with the goal that when I went to the post office to buy stamps, I had trouble asking for what I needed. The man behind the desk looked at me with a puzzled expression as I spoke too quickly and too quietly. I could see that I wasn’t being clear. But I couldn’t do better. My mouth was dry.
In addition to bungling a visit to a government office, I visited my parents at their summer house. My grandparents built the house in the 1970s; my parents renovated it in the 2000’s. But it’s the same house, the same place, no doubt about it. I know because when I fill a glass with water from the kitchen sink and look out the big picture window at the garden, I see the same scene I have seen every summer of my life. Scrubby pine trees waving in the wind. Butterflies at the bushes. Light on the day lilies. When I look down the driveway, I see the same rose bushes spilling over the gravel. I see my grandmother in the garden, where she liked to be in summer time. I see my grandfather, too. He’s reading the newspaper, like he always did. I hear his voice.
I see my sister Lisa, gone since 2009, coming up the driveway from an afternoon at the beach. I’m filled with happiness.
She’s there.
I’m here.
Beautiful. Counting the days to get to Block Island.
That’s beautiful.