“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”
― John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America
Every year, I impatiently wait for summer to arrive.
The dread of winter, the dry cold consuming all will and all life will pass. And there will come the joyous warmth of summer. Giving life to the yellow grass, decorating the naked trees in green ecstasy.
The possibilities are endless. Too endless. I get paralyzed. And oh, summer fleets so fast. Slips through my fingers and steadfastly runs through all the numbers on the clock.
The loss of the sun-showered moments, the grief of what could have been, the slow pathetic approach of my birthday, perching at the end of August.
I am grateful for my eyes that see, my ears that hear, my feet that walk, and the metaphorical bread that nourishes me.
Yet, somewhere in the corner of logic and wistfulness, my mind mourns the lost opportunities.
I have the want. I lack the will.
I would blame depression, OCD, anxiety, and all the melancholy that squeeze my brain. But I am a big girl now.
How’s your summer going?