Letters from the Catskills: “It’s Time,” said the Crickets
There is a particular kind of presence that comes in the final days of something sacred. Not the rushed kind, trying to cram what’s left. But the softened awareness that something precious is closing, and you want to feel every second of it.
My last week in the Catskills, I didn’t look forward. I refused. I let the clock stretch sideways. I let the mornings be longer, slower. I lingered at the creek early, toes in the cold, trout weaving their ancient patterns. I stayed later, too—watching sun flares shimmer on the water and strangers become familiar by firepit light. I let joy interrupt me as often as possible.
I flipped back through my summer in paint: daily watercolors stained with wildflower tones and fog-soft blues, weekly finger paintings that bore the marks of what I couldn’t name with words. There were streaks of creekwater joy, bursts of hummingbird presence, wide open skies. Each page was a memory—of adventure, of laughter, of coming back to myself. I scrolled through them slowly, page by page, like a private liturgy. Each stroke, a reminder: you were here. Fully.
And I sang. Loud. Off-key. On purpose. The teardown Jeep I rented for the summer shook with the force of it. Windows down, I sang to the trees, to the winding roads, to no one and everyone.
I knew the end was coming—not because of the calendar, but because of the crickets. They arrived a week early that year, thick in morning mist and evening stillness. A slow crescendo that only those paying attention would catch. The same song they’d sung last summer when I said goodbye the first time. Their return was sacred. A signal. A benediction.
And so I did what I had learned to do all summer: I listened. I stayed awake to the goodbye.
I packed slowly. I gave thanks aloud. I touched the porch railing, the pine-scented air, the earth itself. I whispered to the creek. I buried my face in the hummingbird-watched flowers. I let myself sing and cry—again, off-key, but beautifully.
I knew I was leaving. But this time, I wasn’t leaving myself.
Closing Practice: A Ritual of Returning
Before leaving any place—literal or spiritual—pause.
Light a candle or sit near a window.
Name three things the place gave you. Say thank you out loud. Breathe in. Breathe out. Touch something familiar—your own hand counts.
Whisper: I carry this forward. I return whole.
