Yesterday morning I lay on my sweaty back, watched the neighborhood geese V up for their annual training flights and fought back my annual panic at the fleeting nature of life.
Summer lasts a moment around here and there’s still a lot to pack in. That sand-in-your-toes feel, sticky ice cream taste, campfire smell, lapping water sound, green-grass-grows-all around sight requires serious savoring.
I intend to ramp it up.
I vow to walk instead of drive, sleep with the windows open, drive with the top down, choose the outside table, slap on the sun block, roll up the sleeves, turn my face toward the sun.
I’m going to buy from the farm stand, bike to the grocery store, enjoy a little light summer reading on my front porch.
After dinner strolls, pre-dawn jogs, puddle jumps, spontaneous dives, idle floats — they’re all calling my name.
I’m going to dust off my golf clubs, roller blades and racquets to tee off, roll out and swing.
There are 16 days until Labor Day and I plan to celebrate each one.
I’m going to watch the ice melt on my iced tea glass, ride a roller coaster, toast a pudgy pie, point to a constellation I can’t name.
I will swim a lap or two at the public pool, run through a sprinkler, buy lemonade from a scotch taped stand, play a pickup game of basketball, eat a tomato fresh off the vine.
Winter looms in the dark shadows of these lengthening days.
It’s time.
Pack yourself a picnic lunch and head outside.
Take your shoes off and wriggle your toes in the soft grass.
Smell a flower or two.
Swing.
Shout.
Dance.
Play.
Live.
