The Summer Suitcase

A friend and I were out for walk on one of the very first hot days of the summer season. As we walked, we reminisced about really great summers we've had. Some of the summers that linger in my memory are the summers I did not necessarily do a lot that was exciting, but rather were times when I was able to fully respond to the moment. The summer I got married, I moved back from the west coast and spent the summer picking berries, making jam and wedding invitations and swimming at the beach in between. Another summer, we moved to an apartment in the city with just one bag each containing only just enough clothes and toy and books to keep us going all summer.

The common denominator, of course, was simplicity. Everything was boiled down. There was less stuff to keep track of and maintain. The time we saved by not being absorbed by all the stuff, that seems to bog me down now, we put to good use. Those precious summer days were savoured because I put myself in a position to just walk out the front door and do something meaningful.

As this summer approaches, I am consumed by making multiple, overlapping plans. The unrelenting search for cheap and interesting summer camps threatens to sabotage the promise of listless summer vacation afternoons I remember so fondly from childhood. Of course, I need to work and they need to be occupied, so I can do that work (so that I can pay for the camps), but how can I infuse into the process a spirit that does not dilute the possibilities summer, left to its own devices, can generate?

My friend said, wouldn't it be great to just have a summer suitcase?

A summer suitcase could be a bag in the trunk or by the front door that contains just a pair of underwear, a bathing suit and a towel and leave it at that.

Pare it all down and see what happens.

Ever since that conversation, I can't stop thinking about it.

Instead of getting overwhelmed by the plans I need to make to keep the kids going (and cared for) all summer, perhaps I should make more effort to empty the calendar and let plans make and unmake themselves a little more often.

Comments

A 5 minute challenge

WifeMotherExpletive extended an invitation I could not refuse: " Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking" on the word, Real . real is what I always strive to be. in a hurry to be as real as possible, I've overlooked so much. I have denied myself things that would have helped me understand things better. real, but real for who? as I age, I want to be more real to me because I suspect that there will be many surprises. hard to believe that I will be surprised since I have lived with myself for 36 , going on 37 years, but I don't doubt it for one minute. Honesty is where I falter. I can achieve "real" (does it qualify as real if it is in quotation marks) but it may not be true. In general, I want things to be tied up in a package and smooth even it is too jagged to fit. I want this, I know that to be real, it cannot happen but I think true is what I need to really aim for. I know some things are tru...

the words fell out

Despite being an introvert, I do often process big life events (and many many small ones) out loud by verbally hashing out my thoughts with whoever will put up with me. But this morning when I woke up to the big red blotch on the U.S. map...all my /the words fell out. They fell out unsaid, unformed. Got to work and probably , in another time, would have annoyed my co-workers, dominating the conversation with my verbal extrusions, but not today. I just mutely stared across at them and nodded. My dad came for lunch. Normally, we relish a good political diatribe, especially when we feel sure of our perspective, but this time, all I could do was munch on fries and marvel at all the unarticulated thoughts that I was not even bothering to retrieve. The silence inside me was noticeable. Social media was awash with reactions and I just looked away. I couldn't bear to read one word about it. I was not receptive to any reactions, accusations, reflections, words...

Bringing her back

As the first anniversary finally passed, I exhaled. The sadness still nibbled away at the edges, but not clawing deep into my chest like it had been with varying degrees of ferocity in the twelve months previously. She died in early summer, so I plunged into ocean and lakes and ate fruit straight from the plant. The grief became softer, the folk songs carried me along in the potato patch we planted in therapy. But then, I started to miss her. The deep grief kept her so close and now as the pressure eased, so did her presence. I held my breath and decided to be really sad this morning just to see her face. To sit in her prescence. My breath became jagged as I cried for her, for us. This Taylor Swift cover by Marc Maron broke me right open this morning. Here's to staying broken open enough to keep your loved ones close. And then, I walked into her garden. The garden she envisionied, planted over and over and still pre...

Growing Versions

Search This Blog