Hidden soundtrack

The cicadas are chirping, sounding the alarm on another sweltering day. Their drone is a vibrating metallic noise that shakes the trees. It rings in my ears, like a thousand whistles or a bow drawn slowly across the strings of a violin. It reminds me of a bicycle chain before it breaks free from its toothy ring.I rarely see these annual minstrels. But their symphony is unmistakable.

Harmless, like a benign tinnitus, their low and ever-present song plays in the background of my mind until my thoughts go silent.

The insects filter the world's soundtrack almost to distraction, making me pine for the churning of air conditioning and the cool, dry air of the indoors.

I feel guilty hiding here. Having banished my children into the sauna outside. They have to stretch their atrophied education muscles. Visit the library. Practice getting out of the house in the morning like it's on fire.

Schooling has already started in my house, though classes won't resume for another week or so. The noise of postponed summer projects has finally cut through the din of other distractions.

I want to rail against the last-minute-ness of this preseason panic. But I can't muster any enthusiasm for I-told-you-so.

Such a gloat would backfire anyhow. I told them next to nothing as they plodded along with their mostly unencumbered summer days. I prefer to think of myself as more of a workhorse than a nag.

The last year of high school for one; the first year for the other.

Both suddenly realizing the stakes. Though they seem like two sides of one coin.

One shuts off the world for a bit to focus while the other opens up to its many avenues of assistance. Then, like a coin toss, they flip.

Nature seems at play, even here.

The one who insists on courting perfection never leaves any room for the subsequent disappointments to morph into happy accidents. While the other reaches only for the low-hanging fruit, not exercising gumption until the effortless supply is exhausted.

I've forced myself not to worry. Not to take on the weight of a future I can't know, not to celebrate too loudly. Instead, I just plod along, trying to do my best. It doesn't feel like work when you are just standing there, lightly pushing back. And even in the perfect moments — the ones where you witness success, or progress, or just a little extra effort — the moments where it is possible for pride to drown out the low drone of life, it still feels wrong to harbor it. I'm not proud like I thought I'd be.

It's tempting to think they've won this for the team. In the soundtrack of your mind, the song of cicadas changes to the roar of a crowd. But it seems like tempting fate. 

Best to be humble and to keep plodding along with the low drone of the work at hand. Just as their failures are not entirely mine, neither are their successes. 

The struggle may be real, but it's hidden.