I’m experiencing something quite unusual for me – the end of summer blues. Really, it’s unheard-of. With the end of July, I’m usually feeling anxious for summer’s end, and eager for autumn’s arrival. By August I’m all too-happy to put away the things of summer, and get out the dried leaves and ceramic pumpkins, the spice-scented candles and plaid throws, and make believe August is really September is really October and November.
But none of that suits me now. It’s too soon.
Somewhere along the way, in between the late-night silent films, the sunlit afternoon reading, the long discussions about life and history, and our newest book being published, I wanted summer to just keep going. Of course these daily wonders will continue as they do, but somehow the warmth of big blue summer skies adds a dimension of freedom that’s reminiscent of summers off from school. The excitement lingers.
I hadn’t touched on that feeling in a long time, and I’m happy for it.
‘Till next time.