, , , , ,

This is on the brainspace tonight, because of all the months of my employ, July is the hardest. My friends in the profession have this month off, and they so deserve it. But so do I.  These are the rafting months, the months we earn after hard winters, good golly, we’ve earned it. So, I listen to this song tonight, and attempt to write a hymn for summer:

A hymn for summer in just a minute. First I have to bitch, ‘scuse me, rant, or vent, or something, about the fact that I have my yearly evaluation tomorrow. This is not really a big deal, it just means meeting with my bossfriend for a half an hour to discuss the ways I have and I have not met my goals this year. Looking back upon last year’s self-evaluation, I realized today that I have not met a single one of my goals, nor I have I addressed my “area to improve”, which was only to make my classroom look less science-y and more like me last year, and still I didn’t manage to put up new posters, or an inspiration board, or a curtain, or any of those good ideas. I accomplished nothing of what I set out to, and more than I could expect at the same time.

The things I couldn’t expect were that as the job grew harder with a switch in schedules and more classes added, that I would grow to love it more because I’m working harder. That makes sense, for all disciplines and habits. That said, there are some complaints, and I’m glad for the opportunity to get those in writing regardless of whether or not anything comes of it. I like to get my gripes in writing.  Maybe I can combine the desire to not work during the summer with my self-evaluation apprehension, and come up with a hymn to summer.

Here goes it:

A Hymn to Summer

Nobody wants to work or learn when the sky opens up and we grow tired of the modern thing, no work happens when the air warms and the water calls, it is hardest to be here at work in july, july, july, in july the strangest word and month,  it is hard to take seriously the heat, still and new and hard-earned, it drips from us, the restless. The This is not a classroom month, it is a month for boats and splashes, paid for in window-scrapers in the dark dawn, in aching digits, paid for and earned. These catkins have browned and turned for the drop, the lilacs are dead and browning, the creek has gone low and it goes round and round with sweet memories of docks, july, july, july. It’s another year gone in july, one without accomplishment or with many, many more than can be known or realized, it is another rotation of perspective and expectation, of innuendo and giggles, and let’s just ask again for bike tires on the hot pavement, the rubber floatie smell, and sweet campsmoke in the hot july, for snake grass and silt in the eddy and instruments on the lawn, this is no time for work and everyone knows it.


I could write some thousand hymns for summer. That is how much I need them. Plus, vitamin D, poemfriends. In july, july, july.