A week has passed since the school closed for summer. For a week I have slept. I have slept in every morning. I have napped in the afternoons. And I have turned in early. For a week I have minded whatever has crossed my mind. In my own pace. For my own pleasure. Without restraint.
There is something utmost meditative in the sounds and sights of June. The humming of the odd bee. The arch of the flying butterfly. The never-ending song of the spring birds. And the hands and feet that attend to errands, leaving the mind free to find its own path.
It is funny how everything comes to place in the effortless space of non-scheduling. Without planning. Out of time. It is almost like looking at a negative turning into a photograph.
Maybe it is just the summer magic. Maybe the bees and the butterflies keep it all together for us in the summer, and when they die in the autumn everything falls out of place again, leaving it up to us to take control.
Meanwhile, I am left drifting off to my sweet meditation. When it is June.