Carpe Diem

Today was the first short-sleeved-weather day of the season. It was summer come early: all bright sunshine and warm air and flowers. The forsythia’s yellow shoots are lining the streets and roads; maples are beginning to flower; the magnolias and weeping cherry trees are in full bloom. It was too nice to stay inside.

I opened the windows and the smell of fresh air came into the house. It was the smell of my childhood summer mornings, of clean sheets that had been dried outdoors in the sun all day. It was the smell of vacation. It reminded me of the summer days a decade ago, when I used to take a blanket out back and lie on the lawn writing verses. I used to share them with a friend; we called them “blanket poetry.”

Everything about the day seemed to beg me to go outside, have fun, celebrate the fine weather. But I had papers to grade. So I sat at my desk and tried to read them and make plans for next week’s classes. I fidgeted and daydreamed, as distracted as my most bored student. I watched the clock and checked my email and added a couple of paragraphs to my novel. I tried to convince myself that English composition was important and that transitional sentences really mattered.

Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and in the middle of the afternoon I took the dog out. I tossed the ball for her until she got tired and lay down by the lawn chair. I walked around the yard. The area under the maple trees was blanketed with yellow dog-tooth violets; a row of bright double-daffodils lined the fence between our neighbor’s house and ours. The grass was greening up, encouraged by last week’s rain. The insects were out, too. Tiny black gnats danced in clouds. I watched a bumble bee couple copulate in the air. A small white butterfly fluttered among the budding bluebells. A garter snake slid beneath a thicket of raspberry shoots and smoothly disappeared.

I sat down on the chair and did nothing, thought nothing, for awhile. The sun lay like a friendly arm across my shoulders. I looked at maple seedlings coming up on the lawn, scattered among the few remaining blossoms of Siberian squill. I reached down and stroked my dog’s black and brown side.

It occurred to me that for the first time that day I was doing exactly what I should be doing. I felt centered, still, that my heart was full and satisfied.

The ancient Greeks talked about kairos ­– the ripe time, the opportune moment. It’s akin to knowing when fruit is ripe and ready to be picked. I am slowly learning to fine-tune my awareness of time, so that I can detect its ripeness, its fullness. And so that its ripeness will be reflected in me.