Tall shadows on the grass from the rising sun. The quiet of the house. A cat sleeping on the rug near the back door. The chickens pecking and scratching in their run. Apples on the tree, nearly ripe and ready to eat. A few wispy clouds passing by, teasing at a big blue sky. Coffee. Waffles. Podcasts.
The sun high in the sky. The sights and sounds of the Farmer's Market. Treasures found at garage sales. Quiet time with a good book. Various errands to run. Pesky weeds to pull.
Tall shadows in the grass from the setting sun. The blue sky fading to purple. The quiet of the house. The chickens on their roost. Family time. A good movie and popcorn. Warm laundry to fold.
I wanna live where it's always Saturday.
Cleaning the garage. We procrastinate about it, as sorting through boxes which may contain painful experiences from our past can be an unpleasant experience. It can also be cathartic, as we need to clear out some of the past to hold what we need for the future.
We're still opening boxes from our most recent moves, looking for things we think are there and find things we didn't think were. A recent foray into that minefield of containers led us to a box of books, a few of which were from my childhood that I had passed on to my daughter. One of then was "Charlotte's Web".
This particular copy once belonged to my aunt. It was given to her by a family friend for Christmas when she was 10 years old. I found it in my grandparent's garage one summer. I was immediately hooked when Wilbur's life is threatened in the first line and read it cover to cover in short order. Wilbur survived a number of precarious situations. Charlotte, his savior, did not.
I was unprepared when Charlotte died near the end of the book. It is the first time I remember reading something that brought me to tears. I read and re-read the end of chapter 21 over and over again. How could this happen? What had I missed? How could the author allow such a thing to occur?
I finished the book and put it away. I would read it countless time over the next decade, and every time I did, Charlotte still died, but I cried a little less. Eventually I started to see the story as a great lesson about the cycle of life for both children and adults. Despite the life lesson it brings, I still cry at the end, knowing the hurt and pain that goes with losing someone who cared for you that much.
There were other items that made it into the donate box that day, but the books did not. They will stay with us as a reminder that while it is necessary to make room for the future, sometimes we need to hold on tight to the past.
Chronos and Kairos were the ancient Greek gods of time.
Chronos was the personification of time and order. The chronology of days, governed by the carefully calculated sweep of the Earth around the sun. Seconds lead to minutes to hours to days to weeks to years to decades to centuries. Everything we do is marked by the steady march of time.
Kairos was the god of the fleeting moment, a moment that must be grasped otherwise the moment is gone and can not be re-captured. It is the "right time" or the "appointed season" and is not marked by the past, the present, or the future. Kairos time is more of a feeling. In contrary to how a clock measures 
time, it has a variable duration; ten minutes in traffic is longer than ten minutes reading a good book.
Chronos is quantitative; Kairos is qualitative. The scar from surgery to remove my appendix is a reminder of Chronos; the scars on my heart from lost loved ones are a reminder of Kairos. Kronos time is what we live with on a daily basis, what we schedule and make appointments in. Kairos time flows gently, allowing us to be in the moments that nurture our souls.
The clock is always running forward and we simply can not stop its crawl toward the next tick. We spend most of our lives gazing into the future, getting ready for things, making plans. We lose moments to the past, out of our reach, elusive and far away. When we are fortunate, we get to touch yesterdays.
The past can be elusive and far away, but on rare occasions we find it dead-center in front of us, Kairos overruling this finite world of Chronos, reminding us we are not alone, allowing us to feel the human connection with those who were here before us.
The long days of summer provide the hours of sunshine that fruit-bearing plant need to complete their cycle. This time of year, farmers markets burst forth with fruit of virtually every kind. For some some, it is rich red raspberries or deep dark blackberries cane-berries that get their attention. Others prefer the sweetness of strawberries or the crisp taste of a melon.
For me, summer means stone fruit, the nectar of the gods. It starts with the luscious m
ahogany red cherries, progresses through the bright yellow-orange of apricots, the purple-violet of plums, the yellow-red of nectarine, and, of course, the pink-orange-red of peaches.
The color peach represents immortality in Chinese civilization. A key concept in the mythology of the Taoist religion, the peach tree of immortality is thought to be on a mountainside somewhere in western China. Peach trees are believed to have originated in China, brought to India and Western Asia in ancient times, introduced into Europe after Alexander the Great conquered the Persians, brought to America by Spanish explorers in the 16th century and eventually to England and France in the 17th century, where it was a prized, albeit rare, treat.
The urge to do a swan-dive at the sight of juicy, summer peaches is a powerful one. They are here and gone in all too short a period of time. Fortunately they freeze well and our chest freezer is usually home to several bags of sliced peaches, waiting to instantly transport me to a warm summer's day.
