It is June 16, a day every lover of Joyce knows.  Today is the day that belongs to the artist and the flower of the mountain.  It is a day that reminds us of our interior monologues and the fact that a day never happens the same way again, that on any day you will do and feel what no one else ever has and that once gone, the events are gone forever only to be replayed continuously in the mind’s eye.  Eternity rests in the replay and you wake up every day to an ordinary world with the previous day gone.   You can lay in bed and think about 16 years ago.  You can think of the times when you said, “Yes.”  When you do this you will realize yesterday was not so ordinary and tomorrow is a long way off.   But as you wander through life, nostalgic of the past and filled with either hope for or fear of the future, you will have this ordinary day that tomorrow will be remembered as extraordinary.

No day ever truly disappears, though.  Joyce reminds us of this.  His mythic day was 108 years ago from this day.  Today people dress up (at least in Dublin) and go to Ulysses readings.   Most of us will let the day slip by without thinking of Joyce.  What we will not do is hesitate to think of our own June 16ths.  We will remember when we were artists and flowers of the mountain. We will think back on our leap years and our time wandering our Dublins with names like Elyria, Chicago, or Fort Wayne.  We will know everything we do today will be because of our own June days in our own Dublins.

We will do this and when we do we will again say, “Yes .”

Note:  “It was leap year like now sixteen years ago today.”

 

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