I always get this way when summer is beginning to wane–this sadness, this longing for summer to never end. This I-didn’t-accomplish-all-the-things-I-wanted-to feeling. (It’s no wonder why they use the seasons as a metaphor for life.)
It all begins with that gentle breeze in spring, the promise of warmth that one gets from outdoors in the longed-for fresh air. Promise of beach, biking, books, cantaloupe, family, fishing, friends, gardening, ice cream sundaes, July, kayaking, picnics, relaxing, sun , travel . . . weeds . . .
I first notice summer’s approach when driving to work: the meadow grass turns lime green, a lush neon-green shag carpet. “Ah,” I think to myself, “summer’s here!” The titillation is almost too too much to bear.
I now ponder on all the upcoming rapidly dwindling days where I will just lie around reading in the safety of the shade or lie on my belly to take pictures of bugs and buttercups. Staying up late to finish a chapter of one of those can’t-put-it-down books or watching movies long into the night actually helps to remove the creases from my forehead, the frown from my lips.
By midsummer, I’m into a routine of doing whatever, whenever I desire. I can sit back and watch the waves roll in or stare at all the bikini-clad beachgoers, whether they are meant to wear one or not. Who cares? I wear a bikini myself . . .
But I realize when August crawls lazily across the stark blue sky–summer’s almost over. The visiting friends, the family, the boating, the beachcombing is over–all that flurryof activity is over when