Tonight might be the year's longest sunny day, I thought Sunday evening as dusk lingered. The next several days, among which fell the summer solstice, promised rain and clouds.
I despise summer solstice. It brings me down. Forget that it signals summer, it also kicks off six months of gradually diminishing daylight - a fact I can't see past.
Sitting there, playing Scrabble with Chris, I wondered if I'd squandered 2011's sunniest days thus far. Certainly, on that day, I had not. In the company of good friends, I raced a mountain bike, watched a criterium and walked around Stillwater, Minn, before heading home to eat dinner and play board games on the back porch with my husband. Vowing to mindfully savor summer's warmth and light, I resisted further dwelling on the slow shortening of days about to transpire.
At some point our lives shift seasons. We tend to recognize these transitions through aging. However, because how many days we have is a mystery, it's impossible to really know when our summers begin or how soon we'll approach winter.
Perhaps it does not serve us to obsess on seasons. If we're too busy dreading the season ahead or lamenting the season gone by, we squander the season we're in. All days - bright and dark - hold value. And if we can recognize that, it means we're alive.
0 comments:
Post a Comment