I was driving through town yesterday, California blue sky filling my dashboard, and I wondered, “Was summer different when I was young?”
The thing is, I don’t remember Summer, per se. I remember some days swinging, some days alone in meadows, some days at school when sun shone in the windows and hit the table as I worked. I think Summer, the California sort at least, is too big for a child to grasp. Children experience the moment more strongly than we do but the seasons, less.
That’s something to love about getting older. I remember yesterday, but I also remember tomorrow. The tomorrow from last year and the year before. Yes, we relinquish our hold on the immediate as we age. Yes, our senses weaken. But the accompanying distance makes it easier to see patterns, that proverbial big picture.
I think the task is to find our same strong joy in rhythmic passage as children do in the single flash. We recognize the highs and lows. I didn’t know then but I do now that the absolute peak of California’s summer happens right at Nordic Midsommar. Next year I’ll celebrate. Making the most of my time.
I think we also get to ignore any melancholy brought by perspective, and its inevitable view of the end, and just enjoy the little known fact that Summer is also for the older. How great that we don’t run out of surprises.
Have a wonderful weekend.