It’s almost summer. I can see it from here. It’s not the heat or the shorts or the calendar; it’s the water. Summer starts when water returns as a major character.
In my heart of hearts, I’m a Fall girl with all its tweeds and layers and crispness that smells like a lightly shaken cocktail of freshly sharpened pencils, leather and firewood. My psyche loves the winter and craves the heavy quiet of snow. But my soul, it needs the water. It needs the ever-changing patterns and twinkles of reflecting sun, the weightlessness and gentle resistance.
It’s impossible to worry in the water. It just is. You cannot feel crushed and languid all at the same time. It causes longing, a pull, an ache, but a burden is unallowed. All your movements are graceful, your thoughts almost lyrical as they slow and stretch.
Maybe it’s the relentless school calendar that has trained my brain that summer and water mean everything slows down, but as soon as I hit the water, momentum is hard-pressed to exist. Sorry, June, July and early August – I will be unavailable for comment.
I will live half-submerged in the late hours of the day while my hand traces endless patterns in the water and I will use the next sixty days or so to consider a shift, or plans; to look back or look ahead or just swing all the fence gates wide and let the water fill the space that divides and see what floats through the openings.
I hope whatever it is brings an umbrella drink and sunscreen and inspiration.