Distinguishing fleeting stars from aircraft lights is not an easy task. It is a job that can only be done on the nights that give away the long summer days.

I just started the summer and with the full backpack I took a step outside the door of my house, to be two weeks caring for the not-so-small boys and girls. Free. Not having to work in summer, not having to sell my workforce to the capital and voluntarily give it something small to build something bigger. To the extent that summer work has become the wording of this column, it will have to be exploited. I do not know how long I will be able to allow myself not to work in summer, for the moment we are in it.

Colonies have something special. Have time and desire to look for fleeting stars, for example. For several days, forgetting the life behind your home portal and creating a horizontal pseudo-hippy alternative community. All of a sudden, all you care about is the well-being of some children you don't know of anything, keeping your phone in the sleeping bag without a battery and avoiding looking in the mirror. I always have the feeling that I know it's not my real life.

And, look where, frightening star, I thought I could stay here forever. Leave conventional studies and learn how to cultivate land, for example. Leave family and friends and create community, be mother and daughter at a time. From the cleaning of the own room to the attention of a whole house. Take care of the medicine chest tonight and tomorrow. Prepare the food for 100 people and always thank them as if they were the last. Learn how to help and help.

And, look, on more than one occasion the shooting star turns on and realizes that the strobe lights of the plane (I've searched the Internet), that these colonies are a whim that I can tolerate this year and until when, that work and struggle continue at home, that takes care of my family and friends, that I'm not yet able to hang my own batch of washing machines, that I can help with rice on.

I hear songs from afar and I'm looking up at the sky. I think that at home, because of the light pollution, you don't see that many stars, and I'm delighted, and I think I want to go home, and that in the pool I like to bathe and I never want to go back, and I apply what I've learned, and sleep on a mat is fine and my life can't be the same anymore. And that fifteen days can't change you so much, and that this is a mirage. Still, sometimes I find it hard to look up to the sky and distinguish between the fleeting stars and the lights of the plane.

I'm back inside the door, and there's no cries of children near me. I will forget everything, I will immerse myself in the life of skyscrapers in which you only see planes and I will forget everything. And it should probably be that way. In winter, eternal summer camps are far away, among thousands of other life-filling things: every time we make a scale between the important or the non-important.