Cowbells and Common Delights

Sunshine summoned sunscreen, umbrellas, and hats for family and friends seated outdoors or milling about, awaiting strains of Pomp and Circumstance and sightings of the face they’d come to celebrate.

Graduation time in Kalefornia for Luke, from White Hill Middle school and Lily, Drake High School.

We’d come early, like most, to grab seats on flimsy folding chairs, so we could cluster together, sweat beside folks who’d still remember our names tomorrow and join in cheering, snapping photos of the face that mattered most.

For some, this is the highest education they’ll achieve.  For many, decorated caps announced where they’d be come September.  Lily’s read: Brown.   For all, a day of remembering, time marches on.

Both commencements left me awed by the words of eighth and twelfth  graders, their awareness of the world’s challenges and passionate determination to tackle issues, too many adults and politicians sidestep or muddle.

Lily spoke, poised, witty and wise, referencing an email she’d sent in her freshman year to all parents of the Drake Mountain Biking team about how to cheer. Must’ve worked.  They were state champions the past four years. She challenged parents to cheer, not just for the Drake team, but all riders.

She reminded us, “Ring those cow bells for any one riding by, about to graduate.  None of us got here alone.”  And to her classmates and all seated and sweating under the heat of sun and words added, “Let us all be the reason another made it up the hill.”

Later, family and friends-like-family gathered back at Matt and Heather’s for dinner. Before the meal, Heather asked the matriarchs, Annie Willis (the other grandmother) to read a poem, and I, to offer a prayer.  The momentary ache of neither David’s nor Jud’s presence,  softened in signs of both in children and Grands.

Annie read Mindful  by Mary Oliver.

Every day

I see or hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight,

that leave me

like a needle

in the haystack

of light,

It was what I was born for-

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world-

to instruct myself

over and over

in  joy,

and acclamation.

Nor am I talking

about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,

the very extravagant-

but of the ordinary,

the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.

Oh, good scholar,

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these-

the untrimmable light

of the world

the ocean’s shine,

the prayers that are made

out of grass?

After the silence that follows hallowed words, I prayed but the real blessing held hands around the length of tables, while faces, we long to see, cheered and rang cowbells from heaven’s porch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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