As far as daylight is concerned, it’s still somewhat early. The sky has a ways to go before it’s eaten away by darkness. Yet here I am, locked away in my house, curtains drawn. I moved around in a half-panic earlier, thinking I’d given away one of my favorite books, Ron Rash’s The Night the New Jesus Fell to Earth, a collection of short stories that resonates louder than any other when it comes to the absurdities of the modern South. After some hard searching, I found it. And now, in spite of having shut myself in, in spite of the fact that lots of folks in my neighborhood are outside, soaking up the last bit of light before the world tilts and the days become inevitably shorter, I am inside. I am inside and I have my book and I am home.
After much thought and a long talk with a friend, I’ve decided to focus my efforts on June, starting with “Two Lambs.” The story is begging me to finish it. I listen, but I can’t hear the story’s voice. I can barely hear June’s. It feels wrong of me to force the story out, but I know that I cannot ruin it. It can–and likely will–begin again, and again, and again.
There is a strong correlation between solstice and rites of passage. To move into the next phase you must fully be what you are. One day must decide to be the longest of the year before the following days can become increasingly shorter. Likewise, June must be as much a child as she can be before she takes that turn into adolescence, into becoming a young woman. That’s what “Two Lambs” is (or should be) about. June is Summer Solstice. Full and alive with as many possibilities as can be, but knowing that that turn is coming soon. The next phase will be different. Fewer childish possibilities, fewer opportunities to be a kid. And Randy, June’s mirror, is Winter Solstice.
Maybe this doesn’t make as much sense here as it does in my head, and I guess that’s okay. There is still light outside, just as there is still time for me to sort this all out.