By Icy Frantz
July 4th and all of its festivities and BBQ’d foods and red white and blues have sadly come and gone, but I have kept with me an image from a morning drive through Old Greenwich the day of our town fireworks display. I was passing by Binnie Park and took in an incredible sight. Hundreds of beach chairs and bright colored towels and blankets had been carefully set up in anticipation of the evening show. It was impressive. It was early. The whole park seemed to be lit up like a Christmas tree, and I could imagine the small hands of children trying to squeeze just one more ornament on the already crowded branches. Early birds had staked their claim on small pieces of the park that would afford them a wonderful view of the night’s main event. It was an amazing sight.
What I find so interesting that depending on where we place our chair, we gain a certain perspective. If we are close, we need to crane our neck and we watch with awe the brightly lit explosions directly above us and we feel a certain exhilaration from the fireworks raining down upon us. Farther back, we have a more angled view, the fireworks appear a little smaller or less visible through the residual smoke from the preceding explosion. Away from the park, we can hear the explosions, but miss completely the colorful performance.
Likewise, depending upon where we have staked our claim, or set up camp, we view the world in a certain way and from a certain perspective. We worry about that which is around us. We befriend those on the beach towels close by. We dress in a certain way. We eat certain foods. On the whole, we follow the unwritten rules of the culture we live in. And we focus on that which is in front of us.
For me, Summer is always about expanding my reach and my vision. I pull the corners of the blanket a little tighter to cover a wider area. I travel. I read. I engage. I spend more time outside and I try and make my view of the world a bit bigger and therefore, my thinking a bit broader.
I travel to new places and also places I have been before, many times, and being away from home allows me to remember that it’s a big world out there and that New York City is not at the center of it. And I learn from these travels about the countries I visit; Greece or Rome or Canada or Africa and the different city smells and the feel of the bumps of an old cobblestone road. Or I visit an island in New England for just a few days with no running water and electricity, wearing headlamps at night and enjoying the stars and each other without the distraction of the internet. Lifting my head from a pillow that is not mine and opening my eyes in the morning light, offers me new sight.
I read, not just what is required but what I want to read and through these books, I learn what it’s like to grow up in a broken home or in the Midwest or the inner city or as a black man or a gay woman or during the 1920’s, 30’s and 40’s or on a battle field. And the time spent in others’ words helps me expand my own understanding and empathy.
Our children come home from college or they leave, to spend time at camp or to study abroad or work and I try and see the world from their bright eyes and big hearts and hopeful ideals and they share a new language or a new skill. And they, in all of their wonder and their intimate connection to a new generation, help me increase my scope.
Or I gather with family, each of us living in different parts of the country, living different lives and it’s strange that the time spent under one roof was many years ago, time that we never thought would end, but it did. And time that shaped my first understanding of the world, wearing my parent’s perspective like a faded pair of jeans until I out grew them and developed my own thinking. And the reunion makes me realize that over the course of my life, I have repositioned the chair many times. And my vision is not the same as it was when I was a small girl growing up in a small town called Greenwich.
A few weeks ago, a friend called me to discuss a problem that she was having. In her words she said, “I screwed up.”
I told her our lives are made up of information that we are constantly gathering. When we make a mistake, we gather. When we succeed, we gather. In school, we gather and at our jobs, we gather. And the summer for me is the best time to gather.
On a small patch of Riverside soil, I tend to a small garden and right about now, I am gathering and our kitchen counter is covered with peppers and cucumbers and different colored tomatoes. So, whether we are gathering the spoils of our garden or the answers to questions we don’t even know we are asking, gathering allows our thinking to mature and our vision to grow.
Have you ever been in the audience of a child’s first concert? Thirty or so wiggly and anxious preschoolers dressed in their Sunday best, arranged by height on stage, search desperately for a parent or a familiar face in the audience. And when there is finally connection, there is relief. The little performers know that they are not alone and they can clearly see the love that they have inspired. There is such safety in that auditorium.
The summer months allow me to leave that safety, venture out, physically and emotionally and yet, always come home a little wiser and usually a little broader. And as much as I love to stray, I always yearn for that connection: to friends and family and the place I call home. I yearn for my own pillow on which to lay my head and I yearn for that which is familiar. I yearn for the predictable sight of beach chairs and towels arranged in a town park on the fourth of July, and I long to gather with others, fully reclined and watch with awe the fireworks that light up the entire sky and then quietly fade away.
