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Dancing on the Lawn at the End of Summer
September 4, 2001
Thumbing through a book a few years ago, I read a line of words
that come back to me whenever I look for an image of sheer delight:
"I'm dancing on the lawn at the end of summer," a poet wrote.
I don't know her name and I don't recall another word, but I see
her dancing on a lawn where a gazebo is adorned with yellow roses
climbing through the lattice work. The hill of Kentucky blue grass
goes all the way down to a small lake glimmering in the sun now
low in the sky. She's looking down, turning her head from side
to side, her hair cascading from shoulder to shoulder.
The
image is not of me. The image is "peace." What more could this
woman wish for than to be dancing on the lawn at the end of summer.
In spring, we look for signs of the cycle beginning again with
a certain a restlessness. As children, some of us stepped out
of a Currier & Ives lithograph for a closer look at another beginning,
while others, like me, pressed our foreheads against an icy windowpane
to catch a glimpse of the first robin or for a tuft of grass forcing
its way through a crack in the sidewalk. (Sometimes, with their
need for rebirth so strong, slender blades of grass could force
a new crack in the pavement!)
On
St. Simons Island, there's not an appreciable change from one
season to another. Not so you could chart the moment. It's never
too hot; it's never too cold. The earlier seasons of my life were
distinctly separated by a note on the calendar: March 21, vernal
equinox, and September 22, autumnal equinox. There goes winter;
later, here comes fall. Here trees are always green; flowers are
always blooming.
On
a recent flight to New York, I watched the approach over New Jersey,
across the river, over the waterfront and noticed a grid of trees
that wasn't there a few years ago. It used to be that rows of
warehouses and factories were separated by sooty alleyways, train
tracks, dumps, mountains of coal and rusting pipes. The buildings
are still there, derelict for the most part, but trees line the
streets. It doesn't appear to be part of a beautification plan,
just nature reclaiming its own space, forcing its way into the
sunlight.
I
thought of the dancing woman. When she sways, it's with an easy,
restful motion carrying her to full blossom after fulfilling her
promise.
This
flight of fancy is not my usual way but I did see those words
as real -- the poet was actually out on the lawn dancing on September
21st. I just added a visual to go with the words. I might have
just tucked it away if I hadn't recently thought of my own lifetime
as if it were one year in calendar time.
I'm
three months short of the biblical allotment of three score years
and ten. Luckily, this calendar of my lifetime doesn't define
my seasons sharply as Currier & Ives did in calendar art for the
last century. Mine should be a smooth transition, as smooth as
one season to the next on these Golden Isles of Georgia.
I'm
so grounded in reality, I didn't see the poet's metaphor when
I first read the line. It wasn't as obvious at first as, say,
"Life is just a bowl of cherries," or Forrest Gump's line, "Life
is just a box of chocolates."
The
poet was probably sitting as I am now, not dancing, but writing
words that filled me, her reader, with a peacefulness. The words
fill me with reverie, with reflection. I go over the winters,
springs, summers of my life ... and now into fall.
I
don't see winter literally as ice and snow, frost and skidding.
I see it as sleds and skates, scarves and mittens, rosy cheeks
and rubber boots that never stopped dripping slush from November
until March. And, it was wonderful, that season of my life.
I
see spring, not as the first crocus coming up through the snow,
but in the little hand that held it out to me. My heart swells
remembering that season of my life.
I
see summer, not in sweltering heat and calamine lotion, but in
a jelly jar of fireflies and little fingers pointing out the big
dipper. Is there a better way to spend an August evening?
I
see fall as it once was, school clothes, school books, school
buses, school yards, school, school, school, and then graduation
-- twelve years times seven children. That fall of my life gave
way to the spring of theirs, a natural rebirth out of my own.
And,
now, like the lady in that short line of verse, I'm about to dance
on the lawn at the end of summer. But, wait a minute. Remember,
I'm grounded in reality so I will most assuredly be dancing --
not metaphorically to show where three score years and ten have
taken me, but really out on my lawn.
If
you happen to see me, I regret you won't hear the music I dance
to. Not because it's celestial harps heard inside my head but
because it's Benny Goodman, heard inside my headset.
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