Time Stands Still

In Michigan, the first spring days of warm weather let loose a sea of visitors to garden centers, clouds of smoke from all the grilling that's going on outdoors, and casual viewing of hundreds of freshly-pedicured toes that have not been seen publicly since October. In the rush to embrace the season of warmth, outdoor living unencumbered by coats, boots, and hats, we try to fill every moment with activities clearly identified as summertime things, lest the season get by us unmarked.

But by early August, summer is established. Heat reigns; summertime stands still. The garden flowers are in their multihued glory; we are surfeited on hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled vegetables and wild salmon; some women, secure in their golden-tanned beauty, are going more days between leg shavings. Corn, fresh tomatoes, and sunflowers spill out of bushel baskets at the farmers' market. Pool parties, county fairs, picnics, and ice cream socials proliferate. We relax into the eternal aspect of summer.

That is, some of us relax into the eternal aspect of summer. Others express their particular fears in anxious phrases: "The summer is almost over," "It's gonna get cold again all too soon," "It'll be time for school to start before you know it," this last often accompanied by a dire look. In this northern clime, we know the cycle of seasons. We can all predict the snow, the ice, the northerly winds, the bitter cold. But what's the point of invoking them now?

I remember a spiritual that I learned years ago, singing in a gospel choir: "The Storm is Passing Over." Its first line is imperative: "Encourage my soul." "Encourage my soul," it directs, "and help me journey on; though the night is dark, and I am far from home." I respond with delight when someone says an encouraging word. And when they predict trouble or pain or loss, I don't know what to say. If I say, "Yes, winter is right around the corner," I inauthentically join in the chorus of doom; but if I say, "Oh, come on, enjoy the summer while it's here!" then I sound unfriendly. My default response of late is a drawn-out "Yesss," meant to convey something like "Thank you for communicating with me. I have heard you and, with respect, I prefer to voice no opinion."

Another word for time standing still is eternity. When we experience the present, we momentarily stand outside the cycle of cause and effect, change and loss, living and dying. When we are present to what is right in front of us, not regretting the past nor fearing the future, we have found the answer that confounds any question. It is from this vantage point that our anxieties are quieted, creativity is released, and hitherto unknown qualities of our personality emerge. Early August in the north is a precious time because it invites this presence. It is friendly, still, peaceful, abundant, replete with deliciousness for all five senses. I have the sense of enough. There is enough sun, warmth, beauty, life, light. In those moments when being present fills me as a kind of satisfaction, it even seems that I have enough time, a sense that I enjoy rarely. There is enough, and more than enough.

The old spiritual concludes, "Thanks be to God, the morning light appears. The storm is passing over; the storm is passing over; the storm is passing over, hallelu." When time stands still because we are present to what is, because everything is perfect in that moment, the storm of anxiety, fear, and rage that often consumes us has passed over. Hallelu, indeed.