One day I may try to make better sense of this 50th summer I’ve spent here on earth, suss out all the feelings and inertia, analyze and over-analyze each rain drop and flower bloom, and every whimsical mood. And maybe I won’t – some summers prefer to remain a mystery, and for their sake it’s usually best not to pry. When you go digging for dirt, sometimes all you get is dirty.
Instead, I’ll simply pause for a mere moment of contemplation. You’ve caught me mid-metamorphosis – on the verge of forging an autumn identity while erecting the necessary armor to see myself through another birthday and another end of summer. When so much feels so wrong, I find it best to slow down, ground myself in meditation, and go easy on all the self-criticism that swirls inside my head.
With a mixture of shame and regret, I confess that I am ready to close the chapter on this summer – a bit early perhaps and I’m sure there will be a few more summer posts to come (we haven’t even arrived at the ‘Last Dance’ moment of Solid Gold Disco Drama) but my head has had to move on from the heaviness that certain summers hang around the heart.
You have to lose yourself before you find yourself – and some summers simply don’t want to be found.
