It’s hot as Texas around here and I’m trying my darndest not to be a wuss about it. But it turns out I’m pretty dang sluggish in 100 degree weather and, oh no, there are things to do – there’s so much I should be doing! My friend Abbe, however, posted an interesting article today that’s had me thinking about busyness and the part I inadvertently play in over packing my own family’s schedule. It takes guts nowadays to declare enough is enough with those extras and the shoulds. I’m most definitely a “yes” girl, which sounds sweet enough until I bite off more than I can chew and disappoint you in the end. Passiveness is not synonymous with loving and that is hard for me to swallow sometimes.
On a brighter note, my godparents and sister-in-law are on their way over for a good old red, white and blue 3rd of July party. There will be fireworks involved, oh yes, and patriotism, and sangria, friendship, laughing, being - all my favorites.
And here is a beautiful poem, if you’re into that sort of thing:
Of History and Hope
- Miller Williams
We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.
But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.
Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.
All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.
Happy Independence Day!