First published in Tri Town Transcript, June 15, 2016
By Esther C. Baird
Here is the thing about June in New England:whatever else is true about the weather, or foliage, or the bug situation (ahem, Boxford!), we can be sure that school finally, finally – – ends.
That means, Regular Reader, that the end is squarely in sight. If you’ve been annoyed by your southern friends, who are already at week three of summer vacation while you are wrangling your child’s final poster-board-diorama-costume-report, your turn is almost here.
However, this last month threatens to utterly undo us. I was talking to one of our teachers in the hallway about some super exciting logistical matter and she nodded along and then said, “Thanks, I’ll get to it, but right now I’m living in DO OR DIE mode!!!”
We laughed, but I know June hysteria when I see it. Do or die, baby, do or die.
Will you die if you don’t get picked up from piano on time because I’m required to be in two other places at once? You will not. Will you die if you don’t have matching white socks for school tomorrow? No, but someone may die if you talk to me about white socks that don’t match ever, ever again. For real.
And then I went to my daughter’s third grade school chapel. This was, of course, different than the school play, concert, recital, field day, fun day, biography bash and poetry slam that I had also recently attended (because I have nothing but free time here in June).
They were performing a short play called something like, ‘The Body Part Play’. It’s based on the Biblical passage in 1 Corinthians 12 about there being many parts, but only one body in the church. Each member is supposed to be the best nose/eye/ear/foot they can be because God gives us each unique gifts and we function best by working together as a whole – – like a body.
My daughter was the lungs. Specifically, she was a bossy set of lungs. She fought with the nose and mouth because they wanted to sneeze, but she didn’t want to blow air. Further, the feet fought with the hands, and the eyes wouldn’t open so none of the body parts knew where they were going. Finally the heart got mad and decided to stop doing his job altogether. So the body crumpled to the stage.
This was hard for my daughter because her lung costume was a large piece of cardboard covered in white cotton balls. She was worried that she’d rip a lung as she slowly fell to the ground, but she executed her lung collapse with dramatic flair and not a cotton ball was harmed in the process.
I realized, watching the kids on stage, that June is the collapsed body. We are tired of playing our roles: chipper school moms, encouraging teachers, diligent staff, inspirational coaches, hardworking students, and big hearted principals.
We want to quit and collapse. For example, I am fully and extremely done with lunches. And dinners. Meals as a category have left me bitter. And let’s not touch upon the driving.
On stage, the class body lingered near death . . . but the heart encouraged them to figure it out before he totally quit, so they discussed things and agreed to live. The feet said they’d carry the hands where they wanted to go. The eyes agreed to open so they could see what to do. My daughter agreed to let air flow and the heart was able to start pumping again. Together the body rose from the stage and decided . . . to go make eggs and sausage. I’d have reached for a glass of wine with my newly minted hands, but I’m not in third grade.
Here in June, we take a deep breath with our cotton ball lungs and choose to work together with each other. When summer finally comes we can celebrate as one community with many parts. We will work together to be super coordinated so that finally – – finally – – we can whoop and holler and run bare foot across hot sand into sparkly waters with ice cream running down our chins.