Rhythm and Ritual

I live now in the land of one season (sort of- there is a subtle shift here from season to season, a change in the quality of the light, that I have come to appreciate). I am far away from the dramatic unfolding of each year's annular change from the bleak of winter to the birth of spring, from the heat of summer to the autumn's harvest. That rhythm mirrored the pattern of a year of childhood- back to school, a time of industry and activity, matched the busy-ness and preparation of the fall; the winter, cold and monotonous, was conducive to the rote and predictable day to day; spring revealed a feeling of newness, of having transformed, a new self ready for the freedom of the summer, the browning of the sun and then that sense of urgency once again come fall.

The urgent feeling of possibility and a fresh start is never stronger with me than at back-to-school time. January first has nothing on September even now, years  later and thousands of miles away. So I'm reminded today of a favorite art teacher, an amazing woman really, who treated jaded and vulnerable teenage students of art as true artists, shared the limitless realm of creativity within the confines of a windowless public school classroom. She gave her students respect and compassion, created rituals of art-making and enforced the importance of daily practice. Most importantly, she melded a passionate seriousness with a sense of joy and magical possibility. At the end of each month she made sure to remind us, angst-y teenagers all, not to forget that on the morning of the first day of the next month we were to each make a wish on waking, before our feet touched the floor. Though I don't hold much stock in wish making these days, this simple ritual has stayed with me throughout the years. Despite myself I think of my teacher, the morning and then the month ahead, and half-ruefully, I wish... Perhaps in the morning you will too?