During the school year there is a certain rhythm to my life. The day starts with getting my youngest and sometimes my bonus-son up and out the door for school. There is the 45 minute round trip in dropping them off and then getting home to a quiet house. Being a morning person I can often settle in at the breakfast bar with coffee and the computer and get some writing done.
The summer means a different rhythm to my life. There are at least four teens to keep track of. Sometimes they are here with us, sometimes with their other parents, and sometimes away on adventures. They stay up late. I worry about what they might be doing in the wee hours of the morning. They sleep in late. They appear at random times wanting me to fix a meal. Often they keep to themselves, but then they surprise me and appear in the living room. They may be willing to engage in conversation or somehow include me in their ever more independent lives, and so I close the computer and put away the work for the time being.
The summer also brings us to the lake. A tiny bit of New England heaven. I sit here writing while listening to the loons or watching the great blue heron on the rocks. This morning I was interrupted by the neighbors who literally drove into our backyard (over our grass that they had generously cut for us last week) with their pick up truck so they could back around and get their boat in the water.
Different times of year. Different rhythms. Different strategies for finding quiet and forcing myself to focus on the words that will one day form a book. In the meantime, I am aware of the different rhythms of life my grandparents had to face. The rhythm of safety. The rhythm of oppression. The rhythm of home. The rhythms of Westerbork and Theresienstadt. They had so much more with which to contend.