Rare as a Day in June

Pic taken in Burlington VT on a very rare date night with Justin.

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true

As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,

'Tis for the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,

And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;

The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe

Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

-A segment from the poem by James Russel Lowell

Leo, though walking very well still often has sudden loss of balance issues where his chiny chin chin takes most of the beating. This summer a grated chin has been a permanent addition to his look.

June days are rare indeed, no doubt, but nothing like a day in June with my little Lion boy. That is definitely an exceptional kind of rare. When Lion boy was first born, we knew each day to be unique and treasured because we thought of it as a precious page in a very short book. A painfully short story, but one that you couldn't deny also gave unparalleled joy. However, the story didn't end (of course), and the days started to blend into one another and consequently became less memorable. Now, four years later I have to take myself back once in a while, to remember that no matter what each day is singular and will never repeat. But with a kid like Leo, it's not that hard to do.

Take today for instance.

He "graduated" pre-school. The baby who wasn't supposed to live past six months just completed a super successful first year of school.  

Um. Wow.

He went from starting preschool just for three days a week to all five days in which he learned so stinking much, I don't even know where to start.

I attribute a lot of his unbelievable success to the talent of the teachers and staff at his school and to their patience, persistence and understanding of him, and the fact that they never assumed that he "couldn't."

 Thanks so so much ladies, you rock, and you don't need me to tell you that!

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays;

Whether we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,

And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace;

The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away

Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,

We are happy now because God wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been,

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;

We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back,

For our couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,

And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,

Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true

As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,

'Tis for the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,

And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;

The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe

Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.