There comes a point in every summer where I tend to feel a little anxious for fall. I mean that in all the varying meanings of the word – the excitement of looking forward to it, the anxiety of what might be to come, the mixed emotions of rushing to the end of a favored season. Maybe that explains my feeling on the verge of tears and wanting to throw up lately – perhaps it’s not just the turn of 50 around the corner, but just the usual machinations of a season in flux.
It’s puzzling to me, as the weather has been ideally summer-like of late, and after a slow start and agonizingly-paced build-up to the sun and heat, I should probably simply enjoy it, but my mind has rarely done what it’s supposed to do. To combat such foolishness, I will re-focus my energy on enjoying the moment at hand, on my daily meditation, on the idea of being mindful and aware of every sensation before summer slips by.
Summer – always some towering, insurmountable idea, always some indefinable force, always shining when you least expect it, and always waiting for you to indulge just as she’s about to leave.
