Summer Reverie

Philadelphia

The etymology of nostalgia is homecoming. If we didn't believe in homecoming, we wouldn't be able to bear the day.

W.S. Merwin

I have been postponing this post for several days. Up until today, I wasn't sure why.

For the past few weeks, I have had this growing sense that everything that I require in the world is right at my feet. That is not to say that it is everything I want. But whoever said that would happen anyway?

This summer is folding its tent. The cicadas return at dusk signal the beginning of the fall cycle, the end of long days of white light, the return of crisp cool days with brisk winds.

Most summers I am in my best physical shape, running at least a few races, and, for sure doing the NY triathlon in September. Most summers mark my family gathering in Nantucket for a week or two together, and at least one other journey to visit old friends or new ones.

But this summer has been different. I have spent it largely in the country where my days have been spent trying to meet some very specific goals: writing every morning ( 80% ); repairing/preparing the house for winter; taking care of a new set of mostly nuisance physical symptoms to be sure they are not going to become chronic ones; completing a video module on medical ethics for Villanova; pitching and beginning an article on finance for an journal geared toward trustees; submitting a short story manuscript for publication ( my personal deadline is this coming Friday ); and finally, organizing a mini summer book group to read and discuss Olive Kittredge by Elizabeth Strout which occurred on this past Tuesday night.

In the midst of those personal goals, my new granddaughter, Ella, was christened, my old and dear friend whom I have known since we were 13 and I had lunch at the Metropolitan dining room, then strolled across the park so that she could see where I lived, and I planned another journey for the winter--this time to spend two months in Africa to work in a hospital in Tanzania south of Dar es Saleem, then go on safari in the shadow of Kilimanjaro.

But what has been most interesting to me about this summer is the small things that I have seen or heard or felt. Deeply. The turtle who showed up near the deck after a big storm. The

heron standing silently in the stream beneath my bedroom window one morning like a sentry.

The hummingbird's faithful return. The look of my grandson's face at the opening sequence of Lion King as all of the animals parade across the Minskoff Theater's stage singing a thrilling African chant. The night settling into Central Park as the backdrop for the superb staging of Twelfth Night.

Or the touches of strangers. The woman from Continental Airlines who tried desperately to help me change reservations back from Nantucket without incurring a fee so that I could attend my son's birthday party. At the end of the conversation, I told her that our conversation reminded me of Olive, the protagonist in the Pulitzer prizewinning book, who had often meaningful moments ( although she steeled herself from any real connecting with others unlike this stranger and me ). " It's nice you're going to change things so that you can be there for the birthday. How old is he?" I think she thought he might be, say, 19 or something. "Soon to be 38," I answered, chuckling under my breath. " Even better," she began. " I wasn't much of a mother, actually," she continued. " But they're good kids, adults now, in spite of it, I guess."

Regrets. Moments of connection. It is the essence of Olive Kittredge which is its brilliance. It's the essence of life. Strout takes the day to day lives of ordinary people in a tiny town--people who don't go to Africa or Asia. They don't even go to Minnesota. But their stories are real, their heartaches as big as an ocean, and their struggle between hope and despair, palpable.

This summer, for me, has been just that. A chance to try to accomplish goals, meet obligations, prepare for the coming darkness, cold challenging winter. And a chance to take in the early morning light or noticing the dappling of the afternoon's yellow light on the garden as I sit by the stream. Trying to stand in one place. Even when I can't stand it.

All of that is what grownups do. Or what we aspire to do.

To be on our way in the day-to-day while we watch out of the corner of our eyes for the moments that move us, define us. The moments we've been waiting for. The non-showy moments that evoke little, tiny bubbles of silent gratitude.

The moments that whisper, You are alive.

M.C.