Even if what I write about is the details of rush hour that morning on the freeway, living them again usually gives me a sense of peace and affirmation: “I’m a human being; I wake in the morning; I drive on the freeway.
Natalie Goldberg
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.
Dear Sisters, Mother and Grands,
Summer is too new and too fast for my likes.
She exhausts me with her flashy pool toys, neon VBS signs, and too-many-choices ice cream bars. She brings home three hip huggers that have me on speed dial, none of which have surpassed a decade… and it shows. Their concerns— so immediate, so of this age drain me.
I used to write of the beauty of this neighborhood and the slow-life, intentional-living it offered— and maybe I will again soon.
Autumn (Summer’s older, wiser sister) is calling me— with her musty book scent, crisp walks and warm caffeine vapors. She allows me time to talk to people with wrinkles, to count the crack’s on Sandy’s steps and type words that feel older than me.
What helps is to say, “this is a season.”
And you know what?
My kids love this season. They love being home with their frazzled mom— concocting art projects, water gun battles, library dates, movie nights, cardboard mansions, and Friday neighborhood park dates.
I stuff wet swim suits into Ms. Librarian’s avocado washer and watch it start to spin. The familiar ca-ca-ca tells me it’s through. Maybe her too? Maybe she stood exhausted in her basement 80 years ago, after a long day of chasing two school-less boys around. Maybe she too hung tiny bathing suits to dry on her handmade wire clothes line. I stand where her tiny feet once did and catch a glimpse of something substantial.
The old way is here tucked behind the summer sun. I may just need to put my sunglasses on and linger a little longer to see it.
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