wildfires

on tuesday, it rains.
it is good news to hear among the updates your mom relays on the phone.
the relief in her voice is a welcome guest who has hung up his coat and will stay for dinner.

she tells you:
1. did you know that the neighbour's daughter got into art school? she's graduating in the spring.
2. it finally rained, you know, and we've all stopped coughing. your brother has resumed marathon training and your dad has stopped rubbing his eyes.
3. the grocery store has finally switched to summer hours.

it rains, and the chalk fades.
the neighbour's daughter, who just got into art school, redraws the hopscotch course for her little brother.
someone sends you a picture.
each number is a different animal--the three is a dragon. the seven is a stork.

it rains, and the wildfires go out.

a place you once loved has stopped burning.
a boy you once loved has stopped calling.
a game you once played has washed away.

on tuesday, timezones and oceans away,
you wake up to clear skies.

International Date Line

The last time the fourth of July was a Saturday, I was on an airplane crossing the International Date Line from Friday, July 3, 2009 to Sunday, July 5, 2009 on the way home from Australia with the Anchorage Youth Symphony for a music festival.  The principal bassist spent the multiple-flight journey singing "Saturday in the Park" by Chicago.  It was the summer after the 11th grade.

I think about that summer from time to time.  Early in the year, the symphony had decided to go to Australia.  Early in the year, the principal oboist realized she couldn't go.  Early in the year, understanding that someone would have to play principal on Beethoven's ninth in the Sydney Opera House, I committed.  Late in the year, mostly out of curiosity, I applied for a language scholarship with the National Security Language Initiative for Youth.  Late in the year, I was accepted to study Persian in Dushanbe, Tajikistan on a full scholarship for six weeks.

The dates conflicted, of course.

We always get to where we're going, I think, but sometimes it requires a fair amount of course correction.  In 2009, I was getting ready to start applying to colleges and auditioning for music scholarships.  By 2012, I had dropped all dreams of a music major and was studying languages in the Middle East.

There's a part, about 16 minutes into the final movement of the ninth symphony, where (and believe me, if I could describe this in a less cliché way, I would) the choir sounds like the heavens opening up--and suddenly--the low strings take over and it gets a bit minor:  still spiritual, but with some suffering.  That summer, I sat on stage counting rests and cried for things that come together so flawlessly and for things that are still so uncertain.

Happy 4th.  Have a good weekend, everyone.