As the leaves turn golden and my hair turns grey, as my children grow taller than me and the days get shorter, as the sunlight feels weak and the air feels cold, as the flowers in my garden turn brown and the squash is ready to pick, and I start to get used to the the way the day rushes toward me with lists longer than I can manage, as the traffic piles up on the interstate just when I need to zip across town, I run across my ticket to the state fair crumpled at the bottom of my purse. WAIT A SECOND!
My youngest daughter suggested that we put our new fire pot out on the deck and sit around a warm campfire after dinner. I knew we would have to wrap in sweaters and blankets. I couldn't muster the energy.
How come I have to start thinking about who needs a new winter jacket? Why is it always the same, the way I never ever get our pictures and maps from our summer trip into an album but just shove them into a drawer under the coffee table? How come I can't just serve potato salad and brats for dinner outside? Why am I supposed to be "snuggling in" and cooing over new soup recipes?
I want it back. I want tank tops and lemonade and lawn chairs and late evening bike rides and swims in the lake at dusk and the screen door open and the fans on in every window.
But I'm supposed to start the little campfire ritual in the fire pot. I'm supposed to log on and let my extended family know just when we can come for each of the big deal holidays looming on the horizon. I'm supposed to cheerfully arrive at school meetings and board meetings and campaign meetings. I'm supposed to have a master calendar on the fridge with up to the minute changes of who goes where when.
All the while I should have an exercise plan that will boost me up and make me a responsible desk worker for seven hours straight. As the dark days stand close to my front door, ready to pounce on me and drag me kicking and screaming into autumn and winter, I pile the summer jackets into a bag and start heaving them toward the attic once again. I feel ripe with intentions to make it a good start to a new season and I feel burdened by the fact that no matter what I do or think my children will continue to outgrow their shoes and the autumn rains will turn to snow and life as I know it is just this: hang on and buck up and enjoy each fleeting moment and thumb through the flip book that is living and growing and harvest and change.
--Nanci Olesen
September 21, 2006
posted by Nanci Olesen @ 1:28 PM
2 Comments:
Our 'dog days' have also turned gray and wet as I write from Northern Utah, and you've got me thinking, Nanci, about how I can put the breaks on, for just a little while. The thing is, I've lived here long enough to know that we'll be given a taste of late summer soon. And I want to be ready.
The things we DIDN'T get to this summer...
We didn't take our canoe out for a lazy float on a nearby river. If we go north this time of year, maybe we'll catch a glimpse of beaver, or musk rat.
We didn't take a drive up through the canyons, seeking relief from the summer heat. Now that we've waited this long, the golds and reds will be spreading down the mountains. The tourists will have gone home.
And I haven't yet replaced the flattened cushions on our Adirondack chairs. I love the hours reading with my husband on our deck in the chairs we built, together.
The things we didn't get to this summer... YET. I think I'll post them on the fridge so that when the weather warms again, when the very last crickets are weakly chirping, we can take advantage of the lingering season. And in the meantime, I think I’ll actually go shopping for a colorful, new umbrella… most of ours are survivors of sword fights!
my kinda heavy, mama. imagine if we lived WITHOUT melancholy...
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