One of the last trees I passed this year was covered with Fun Foam yellow ribbons and photographs of children in glittery popsicle-stick frames. I’ve thought about that tree often in the past few weeks, wondering about the connection between those dimpled cheeks and the ominous yellow ribbons. At the end of my musings, I choose to be grateful. My children survived youth and are happy and ambitious at this moment. I have no reason today to hang ribbons of any color on my tree. I will not borrow trouble from tomorrow; tomorrow will have enough of its own trouble.

So my friend found joy in giving the gift. I found joy in creating my own vision with it. And when I return it to its owner full of cookies, the trifecta of joy will be complete.

Today was MY first day of summer vacation.

When I was teaching, there were certain rituals and guilty pleasures tied to the beginning of freedom. I used to sit in the sun and read novels, yes novels, for the first full week. After I’d finished several volumes of mind-candy, I’d begin to make lists of things I’d like to do with all my free time and likely never would: finish the quilt I’d started last summer, reorganize all the closets, sand and paint the basement stairs, write my own novel, etc. It didn’t matter that none of these goals were accomplished; it was the dreaming and listing that mattered. Eventually, I would settle for shampooing the carpeting and spending a few days in Michigan before I started to revamp lesson plans for the next school year.

Somehow, during the past five years of reinventing my life, I’ve talked myself out of a summer vacation. It’s probably guilt. “I’m not bringing home a paycheck anymore so I better make myself useful.” It’s the middle of July, and before today, I haven’t sat on my patio in the sunshine once.

Until today.

Today just felt like summer. So I acted like it was summer. I walked to the store for a few things. I de-furred my cats (well, 2 out of 3). I made sun tea. I sat in the sunshine and read. I planned dinner. I made a play-date for tomorrow.

Happy summer.  :)

Sometimes the violence and tragedy in the news makes me feel estranged from the rest of the world. My life is so peaceful; it’s hard to imagine gunfire and bus explosions in my neighborhood.

Then I happen upon a quiet moment like this in Hebron, Israel. A family celebration, a rugrat that needs to be watched quietly, room full of books and friends and joy — and I feel connected again.

Life is more about kids and books and family and celebrations than the other stuff. And despite our language and location, we all share this in common.

I’m serving on a Federal Grand Jury once a week for the next 18 months. An imposition on life? Yeah. But the perk is the excuse to be smack-dab in the middle of an amazing city on a regular basis. I’ve only begun to explore the rhythm of the city, but I’m keeping my eyes open.

I have no idea why I must photograph escalators. Without fail, when I arrive home from a day in Chicago with a full memory card, there will always be 5 or 6 images of them. Lines? Curves? Motion? That curious feeling of What’s-Around-The-Corner?

I have no idea.

“You don’t quite know what it is you DO want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!” ~Mark Twain

This is the view out the car window that I associate with visiting my in-laws in some central or northwestern Illinois town. The only salvation is to crank up the bass of Fleetwood Mac or BTO.

“Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward of art.” ~ Frederic Chopin

I came across an old letter yesterday, written to my fiance back in college. We wrote a lot of letters during those long summers apart. I was telling him about a day I’d spent with my grandmother, how we’d gone shopping for fabric. She was teaching me how to sew on her 1933 Singer, and she said I had “good hands.” Most of the details of the day have left me now, but I remember basking in her love and comfortableness. I didn’t know then she would be gone within three years or that I’d still cry for missing her thirty years later.