“Ju-u-une. She’ll change her tune.”
This Simon and Garfunkel song has been running through my head all month. But I wasn’t sure what that meant. Until Monday when I woke up and thought. It’s finally changing. The rhythm is changing. And got out of bed smiling.
For those of us with kids in public school in Massachusetts, June marks a real shift in our schedules, our to-do lists, and the cadence of our lives. With at least one child marching to his own drummer and my own insistently-drumming writing muse, the school calendar can start to feel like a prison. Starting somewhere around September 15.
Today, however, is full of possibility. A summer stretches before me full of plans, but full of spaces too. Part of me wants to sit myself down and write out a strict, highly focused writing plan. And the other part wants to put my feet up, stretch out on the garden chaise and just savor the possibilities.
But it’s suddenly Sunday night, the garden chairs are now being circled by bloodthirsty mosquitoes, and my list of appointments and phone calls for tomorrow is cackling at me. And the next line of April Come She Will is “July, she will fly, and give no warning to her flight.” The possibilities are suddenly shrinking.
I will confess that until I looked up the song tonight, I thought that the lyrics were “June, she’ll change your tune.” So I’m going to go with that interpretation. Because something internal has shifted. In spite of the stresses and strains and time-management hurdles ahead, I’m convinced that the last day of June and the fullness of July have great things in store.
Jennifer Louden’s email message today asked,
“What self-care would help you create with rigor and lightness? Ask yourself and listen to what comes to you, before you say, “Can’t. Not possible,” or “Later, when summer is over and the kids/grandkids are back in school.” via Jennifer Louden Blog News.