We traveled to visit my parents this past weekend and spent five days being very busy doing nothing. Mom was stung in the face by a disgruntled ground bee and had a "mild" allergic reaction that took over the right side of her head. It took James and I two days to unwind enough to interact with other human beings normally, but a family cookout on Saturday was refreshing and wonderful. Biscuit, as always, was the star of the show, and she fell head over heels in love with my (step?) cousin Becca's little girl Greta.
Biscuit swam and discovered her deep, undying love of laying in a hammock, gently swaying in the breeze. Even James marveled at how you can't help but relax when you're slung up in a net between two trees in a shady, sun-dappled corner of my Mom's garden. It's best not to fight it too hard. It's easier just to succumb to the peace and relaxation, and before you know it you're blinking awake from a three hour nap and you can't recall the last time you felt quite so well-rested.
And we all visited Grandma in the hospital, quietly dancing around the idea that it could very well be the last time we see her alive. It's a strange sort of sadness, losing someone slowly. On the one hand, it's nice to understand the process and appreciate the rare chance we've all been given-- to leave nothing important unsaid. So many people are gone so quickly and far too soon, with so much left to say. James and I have now both experienced our fair share of loss, and I can't with any certainty say I prefer it one way over the other. It's hard to believe that the most permanent thing about life is death. It's something I think I'll always struggle to wrap my mind around.
In fact, I spent this morning make up a list of things I could not believe. It's full of things like the fact that August is winking at me from right around the corner, and that it's been a lifetime since I've seen Cara from Yummy Books, and that my last post was June 5. Not that that should surprise me. My writing for the past two years has suffered its own form of narcolepsy, nodding off halfway through the upstart of an inspired good idea, only to jerk itself awake suddenly-- disoriented-- trying to remember where it is and what it was saying.
I suppose I could blame it on the coming-of-age that hits you all at once as you slide into the tail-end of your late 20's. I suppose I could blame it on my failing attempts to establish healthy balance in my life, or the exhaustion I feel when I'm home about returning to the Internet for any reason (except to pin recipes of delicious-looking food, of course).
I blame none of those things. Instead, I choose to nod to summer, and the wild adventurousness it stirs inside my soul. This time of year, I always get wanderlust. I remember summer days and nights in Upstate New York, chasing fireflies into the dusky mist and wandering home, drunk on moonlight and heavy, wet summer air or the smell of the trees when it rained. It always disconnected me a little. I don't stand a chance against the teasing whisper of a light summer breeze, begging me to follow it off into the discovery of something marvelous. It will always be my kryptonite, right up there with chocolate cake.