Summer Letter One: To the Ones With Whom I Share a Nose, a Lip and a Little Bit of Spice

This is part of series of summer letters written to my sisters, my mother and two grandmothers. Writing got tough for me. I was tempted to give up, but these women kept me typing. So I decided to type to them for a time.

We’ve stripped off our school britches and donned our summer caps. It is the first real day of summer.

My gaggle of three boys, pack into the van to conquer the library. First of many trips, I’m sure. We would walk, but the sky’s trying her best not to weep. Every once in a while a tear slips and dampens our cotton covered shoulders. No swimming today.

On the five minute drive I spot two neighbors. First is Cindy, jogging of course. Always with her neon leggings, cute blonde tail, a dog and stroller in tow. I don’t think she’s capable of walking or frowning or ever looking anything but cute. I wave. Next there’s Kay and Don, moseying by the abandoned yoga center, big German Shepherd Dona (sounds like DO-nut, they like to say) leading the way. I wave and notice Kay’s haircut.

And I do that thing I do. I sigh.

Not with sadness, but with… there is not enough time to ponder why. I unload boys out from under stuffed animals and grab books next to empty Goldfish packages. In the quiet moments when the three pairs of rubber soles run ahead of me and I’m left alone in a mostly empty parking lot, I get an inkling that maybe the sighs— after a neighbor sighting, a new coffee discovery, or a lone walk through the butterfly garden— has something to do with gratitude.

….

I live in a way that most can’t, like a people of a bygone era. I walk to school, to church, to parks, to friends, to brunch, to shop, to coffee. I live with people I know and wave to. We greet the same pharmacist, shop the same downtown windows. And yet, it’s not a small town. We’ve just moved into the aorta— the heart of it, where it all began. And I am slowly piecing together the history of this community— lazy like, through happenstance curbside chats and photos found online.

I feel the “rightness” of this way of living, like Birkenstock sandals perfectly formed to foot.

Not all people are called to this type of communal living, I know. But I am and I want to share what this slow, centered living has to offer, share the peace I’ve found on the side of my sidewalks.

I share this quiet in my soul, this settling from connectedness through brown bag gifts from the downtown Artifactory shop, invitations to walk to Yellowdog coffee, and brunch at Neighborhood Jam— but my favorite avenue to share my favorite place is… here. In solitude. In forming words alone for you in notebooks, clacking them out on keyboards and hitting “send.”

….

This year has taught me I must breathe, breathe on paper as God designed me to.

I think best in ink. Does 80 plus journals prove it? But I’m living in my “tired thirties” and I wonder how to do it. Three kids, no dish washer, and my kids occasionally like clean underwear. How to fit it all in? I know if I don’t write, I’ll lose it— the spark that keeps my mind energized, even when my body screams for a nap. That spark is too easily snuffed out by greasy forks, shouts for “mommy,” and handling the Aldi bags through my double doors. That is why this summer excites me.

It’s a summer to seize. And rest. Write for an audience of five. That’s you! My lovely lady faces with whom I share a nose, an eyebrow, a smile, and a hint of spice. You— my mother, my grandmothers, my sisters are my safe place and I write you this summer to keep the creative in me alive. And in hopes of making it feel like you just live… right next door.

You will be my grounding when the earth grows hotter, and the kiddie pool fades and I want to give up on my quiet words. I’ll see your smile in my mirror, your crows feet in my pool and I’ll know it’ll be okay to type out simple words, toss the grande ones out with the tacky popsicle sticks, and get on with offering myself to the world.

Thank you for allowing me do to so.

“We can only be grateful that the work itself knocks self-consciousness out of the way, for it is only thus that the work can be done.” Madeleine L’Engle