A friend refers to it as the summer doldrums, like a ship stuck still on a windless lake, no current or breeze to move it along. Caught between the what was, and what will come.
Listless, but not fallow. It is a mater of waiting for things to ripen, winds to change.
Remembering. Heaviness. Thick air, thick water, thick skinned, thick thinking. Still, but not silent. Time is either too fast or too slow.
What do I want? Lemonade, or mint iced tea. Breezes. Adventures. The ability to remember, and the ability to forget.
There is a sadness that creeps into my thoughts and dreams. I remember wonderful childhood summers, at beaches and in the mountains. Away from home. Taking all the time I wanted to get through a really thick book. A different schedule, if a schedule at all. And I remember working summers with camaraderieie and challenges. Making silk purses out of sow's ears, and making small paychecks yield savings, I'm still not sure how I did that. Summer and Shakespeare. One or two plays a summer, studied in great depth, memorized lines with the actors: "This wall is my wall, this thornbush is my thornbush, and this dog's m'dog".
Then there are the sad and serious summers of my adult life. Even those were not all bad. My family and friends helped a lot.
When you are becalmed at sea, the reflections are clearer.
The Art of the Day is: The Art of Reflection
posted by the other Joan @ 9:19 AM
1 Comments:
Hello! Quite lovely and sad. I know what you mean.
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