Summer Joy

Summer often means outdoor fun and joy. Summer at Lake Wingra, across from our apartment, is a prime example. Children climb into the duck paddle boat and splash their way around the lake and sometimes with a joyful squeal.  Adults glide past in their kayaks, canoes or paddle boards.

On Thursday mornings at 9, with my lawn chair, I join a small group of fellow Unitarians for Japanese Crane, a form of Qigong. We sit and talk for awhile, stand up and in silence slowly and gently complete the movements. Afterward we meditate for a short while. Last week, an exquisite white French poodle dog entered the circle, gently sniffed Ann S., our leader, and slowly returned to its owner, an elderly man. He lives in Wingra Shores Apartments which borders the park.      

Meanwhile on the nearby basketball court, millennials perform an athletic form of yoga accompanied by current popular music and the leader's instruction. The yoga and music provide a pleasant contrast  that adds to me feeling the quiet flow of body energy experienced through Qigong.     

This recent poem highlights the joys of summer while raising a question about joy.

Latent

July 8, 2021 by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Riding our bikes through the warm summer night,
the dark itself parted to let us pass;
wind in our hair, soft whir of the wheels—
and an almost irrational joy grew in me then,
such simple joy, as if joy were always here,
waiting to flourish, needing only to be noticed.
 
And is joy latent in everything?
I have felt it sometimes in the washing
of dishes, in mowing the lawn,
in peeling the carrots, even washing
the fishtank and scrubbing the floor.
 
So could it be, too, inside worried pacing?
In envy? In sighing? In the clenching of fists?
Is there joy where I can’t imagine it?
Joy—waiting to spin like a wheel,
waiting to rise like laughter
that careens through the deepening dark.

There is nothing latent about the joy in this new mural, entitled Sweet Frolic, next to the Chocolate Shoppe. Here's Emily, the artist, jumping with joy. Thank you Emily for adding joy to our neighborhood.   

Emily says in a Facebook posting that she "wanted to evoke the feelings you get when you eat ice cream - lots of joy, happiness, and color."

Emily's characters, The Bluestar Bloomers, are skateboarding, playing peek-a-boo, and roller skating. A little neighborhood history is included. The sliding rainbow was inspired by the Knickerbocker Ice House that was on the shore of Lake Wingra in the 1920s. Emily painted a block-shaped Bloomer sliding down a rainbow instead of a block of ice traveling up the chute to the ice house.

Joy is latent in Prospect Gardens and waiting to "spin like a wheel", as happened during July.  Here's Koen, the son of Amy, one of our volunteers, reaching for and enjoying ripe cherries early in July.  Ann and I made a cobbler from cherries I picked. Several neighbors made jams and jellies from cherries they picked.  Cherries provided joy for all of us.

The cherries were abundant despite the tree having major damage along the trunk. This spring I considered removing the tree. Maybe the tree sensed my intention and responded: "not yet, I have more joy to  offer the world."   

Mike, who I have not yet met in person, emailed me asking if he could pick the black currants. The bushes border the path in front of the staying-alive cherry tree. I assured Mike that he could pick the berries and he made a black current crumble. 

Mike is reading about caring for soft berries and intends to prune the raspberry and black current patches. I'm unsure about how and when pruning should be done. I look forward to Mike's applying his new found knowledge.  

 

The installation of this marble sculpture, mentioned in my last posting, continued a joyful story. Marcia's sister, Patty, is the artist and named the sculpture Ara. A southern constellation is also named Ara. I have no idea if Patty had in mind the constellation. Ara does have the fluidity and stability of a constellation.

Initially I wondered how we would move Ara from Marcia and Jim's basement into the Gardens. In an email about the move Marcia quipped that "We need two twenty year-olds." A few days later Sean, a UW Student from nearby Breeze Terrace, emailed me. Sean while riding his bike on the Path noticed my poster asking for volunteers. To my great delight, Sean wrote that he and some of his roommates wanted to volunteer.  Once again needed resources magically appeared.  

Ben, Sean and Simon

I informed Sean about our need for muscle. On a warm late June evening Sean,  Ben, and Simon, arrived on their bikes. The three radiated enthusiasm, energy and joy mixed with laughter. 

After a tour of the Gardens, the three young men, and I proceeded to Marcia and Jim's basement. I thought that it would take all three to move the box. Wrong! Ben and Sean easily carried the box, with Ara in it, up the basement stairs. Ben, in the white T, took over and alone carried the box down the Regent side stairs, while Ann B. watched for bikes, and up the Fox side stairs. Marcia and I followed along soaking in the joy of the gift of youthful labor that was freely given.  

Starting at the Bottom: Simon, Ben, Sean

Ben effortlessly lifted Ara out of the box and placed Ara on the platform. Mission accomplished. Thank you Sean, Ben, and Simon. Your visit was an example of joy spinning like a wheel.

Ann gave them oranges and cookies which were gratefully accepted. The three got on their bikes and road off. The energy level changed as they drove away while gratitude and joy remained in my heart.

Marcia sees Ara from the backyard of her house. She likes that Ara is in a natural setting for others to enjoy. Several other smaller sculptures done by Patty are also in Prospect Gardens. 

Marcia observed a man standing at the bottom of the slope looking up at Ara for several minutes. He then climbed the stairs on the opposite side of the Path and for several minutes gazed at Ara from a distance. I wish I was there to talk with him about his reactions.

I, while working in the Gardens, talked with a couple who stopped to view Ara. The man said little. The women didn't quite know what to make of Ara. She was more interested in how Ara became part of the Gardens rather than what Ara evoked in her.   

These smiling volunteers, who worked on July 10th, are enjoying a break. Ann B. offered apples and chocolate chip oatmeal bars. Thank you Hanns, and Jody(bottom row), L-R Percy, Joyce, and Ann R. for your continued support.  Thank you Ann B. for baking the treats plus your work. 

Percy and I transplanted hosta from the side of Hanna's garage, which is being replaced. They are now along the southern border of her lot and adjacent to the existing  hosta garden. We were pleased with the results. 

Our volunteers continued weeding, which included the tenacious Bishop's Weed. I have trouble accepting that there may be latent joy in the case of Bishop's Weed. Perhaps we should celebrate its will to survive.

Moving away from the dark side of our battle with Bishop's Weed, here are six pictures of July blooms that hopefully will add a little joy to your day. Included are statements about joy for your reflection.

Purple Poppy Mallow 

 

Tears of joy are like the summer rain drops pierced by sunbeams.

 Hosea Ballou, (1771-1852): Writer, American Universalist minister, and theologian.

Coreopsis 

 

Perfect happiness is a beautiful sunset, the giggle of a grandchild, the first snowfall. It's the little things that make happy moments, not the grand events. Joy comes in sips, not gulps. 

Sharon Draper (August 21, 1948): American children's writer and the 1997 National Teacher of the Year, five-time winner of the Coretta Scott King Award for books about the young and adolescent African-American experience.

Rudbeckia

Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.

 Emily Dickinson (1830-1886): American Poet

  

Phlox and Yellow Coneflower

Being alive is finding ourselves in the midst of this great and mysterious paradox. There are ten thousand joys and sorrows in every life, and at one time or another we will be touched by all of them. 

Jack Kornfield (July 16, 1945): Author, Buddhist practitioner, Spirit Rock Meditation Center founding teacher, and one of the key teachers to introduce Buddhist mindfulness practice to the West.

Purple Cone (a favorite)

Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.

Thich Nhat Hanh (October 11, 1926): Vietnamese 

Thiền Buddhist monk, peace activist, and founder of the Plum Village Tradition.

Cardinal Plant and Phlox 

Let us dance in the sun, wearing wild flowers in our hair...

 

Susan Polis Schutz(May 23, 1944): 

American poet, film maker and businesswoman

Jake and Angie

Joy was more often "latent", to use a word from the poem, rather than spinning "like a wheel" while  growing up on our family farm. As a teenager my summers were long days of harvesting crops. Yet, joy surfaced as illustrated in this picture of my sister, Angie and me. I am a skinny 16 year old and Angie is 17.

Maybe the occasion was my brother Tom's high school graduation at which he gave one of two commencement addresses. We were all so proud of him. We are dressed in our Sunday best. I look like I am about to break out into a dance. The drum and hat were from a past Parish picnic. 

The Parish picnic was the highpoint of summer. My mother gave me money earned from picking and selling pickles which I spent on ice cream and on games. I never did win a plaster of Paris stallion that I wanted. My sister-in-law, Corine, has one on a shelf, with other collectables, in her living room.    

The annual event was held at the Parish's "Picnic Grove", better known as the "swamps" because the low land flooded. Picnics were held in July and were a major fund raiser. The grounds were jammed with carnival rides, a few craft stands, gaming booths, and ice cream stands. Women prepared chicken dinners sold and served in a large dance hall. Many weddings were held in that hall, including two of my sister's weddings. 

Bingo was played in a large stand, similar to the ones in the picture, with seating inside and around the perimeter. Individuals and business donated prizes and some were on display. You paid to play. The stand was always filled to capacity as the caller, sometimes a priest, shouted out numbers. The caller's voice could be heard throughout the grounds.

Bingo with an entry fee and prizes was illegal gambling. Yet bingo was played for several years. Even Pulaski's sheriff turned a blind eye. One year police raided the picnic and shut down the game. The Parish was fined, reducing that year's profits. 

In my teen years, Angie and I were dance partners as we took in the popular American Bandstand Television show emceed by Dick Clark. My brother Tony, after he was discharged from the Army, purchased a television along with a TV lamp in the shape of a flying Mallard Duck lamp. The metal television with its rabbit ears and duck lamp on top took over a corner of the living room.

Our lives were never the same afterwards. When American Bandstand flickered on at three in the afternoon, we were ready to dance after taking a break from chores and hurrying into the living room.  Dressed in our work clothes, we danced with the stylish kids (boys in suit coats, shirts and ties, girls in skirts and blouses) from Philadelphia.  Our worlds were so different and yet we were united in joy.

Angie and I, as young children, were playmates before the demands of summer tasks consumed us. Angie created a school in the corn crib, and a house and a beauty shop in a second story unused bedroom in our house. She was the teacher, the mother or wife, and the owner of the beauty shop while I was the student, child, husband or reluctant client. As a beautician, the term used for a hair stylist, Angie washed my hair and once colored my hair using green tinted water. I was a rather compliant child. 

My memories are an affirmative answer to the question Trommer asks in her poem: "And is joy latent in everything?"  Yes, when it comes to the summers of my youth. Summer 2021, already filled with memories, continues to unfold and then will fade into autumn.  I end with this Mary Oliver Poem about summer fading into Fall.

Thank you Kate for posting and sharing the two featured poems on your front yard pedestal. I always look forward to the poems on my walks through the neighborhood.  

Peace

Jake