The Summer of Noticing
Last summer during one of my writing classes, I wrote about that last day of school, when the bell rang and I charged out the doors mad with joy, knowing I could do whatever I wanted for the next two months.
Later, I wrote my own poem about summer. About noticing. About simplicity and breathing space. About presence and joy.
That poem lives on in me. Asking me to continue noticing the world without and within. Pointing my compass towards simplicity. Asking me to answer the questions: what do I really need? What can fall away?
If you get quiet and ask yourself these questions, you will find answers. Your time is precious, and your answers will reveal what matters most.
Here is my poem Summer. I share it with the hope that you connect with your own summers—past and present. In keeping with the spirit of non-doing, no writing practice needed! But if you are moved to write, your jump off line is “I remember”. Or “this is the summer of noticing”, or any other line that catches your eye. Write for around 10 minutes. Read it back to yourself, out loud if you wish, and acknowledge yourself with kindness and love.
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Summer
By Dayna Macy
I remember
That last day of school
The whole summer lay ahead
Thick green trees shimmering in waves
Heat so hot asphalt stuck to the bottom of your shoes
Sultry cricket nights
Thunderstorms
Jagged lightning flashes
one and two, And four seconds later
Rolls of god-like thunder rumbling though your chest
Warm rain
Furtive games of spin the bottle in a friend’s basement
Muttering a silent prayer it would land on him or her
Kitchen sink tomatoes from the farm stand down the road
Dipped in chunky salt, juice dripping down my arms
Soft vanilla ice cream cones dipped in chocolate
Drops of white cream landing on budding breasts
Riding bikes until dark
Mosquito bites didn’t stop you
Reading until 2 am
A short summer of infinity
To do or do nothing.
Delicious boredom
Honey, songs in G and D then an exhale on the Am,
the pungent smoke from a badly rolled joint,
a brush of a boy’s hand,
grilled meat and sticky sugar, some lemonade to wash it down.
It’s summer again, a half century later
In the California of my dreams.
The cold Pacific, sand between my toes. My hand reaching for his, his always reaching back, my chest thumping wildly as his head rests on me
My old dog snoring.
Our sons laughing.
Bright lemons, sacred Redwoods.
Wild iris, poppy, scarlet pimpernels and dried sage
This is the summer of noticing
What it’s like to live now.
All is not lost.