Forget and Remember

 I'm two weeks into summer and figuring out a few things, as I do every summer.

Every summer is a reset for me. I absolutely love being on the academic calendar, which seems so much more civilized than the grind of go-go-go all year round with only a week here or there to recover. What I've learned is that it actually takes me a full week to come down from the school year. The first week off is about recovering - outdoor time, sleeping in (although, at 53, my body thinks that 8am is wasting away the day, and I can rarely sleep past 7:30am, which my 20-something self would think was getting up at the crack of dawn), reading, spending time at the beach, catching up on laundry. The first week passes in a blur, even though there are times with friends and glasses of wine on the deck.

But the second week, I can start to think, and to plan, and to remember who I am, and to start to pull myself together for real.

Over the course of the school year, I forget who I am outside of teaching. In summer, I remember again.

Yesterday, I did so much gardening that my face dripped with sweat, and when I had a shower afterwards the water washed away brown. The weeds in my yard have grown atrocious and unfriendly, and they'd choked out the strawberry bed. Digging in the soil, yanking them out by their roots, and filling the yard waste bin is strangely satisfying. Adding compost and mulch, watering deeply, I could see the plants smiling in relief and gratitude and joy - or maybe that's just how I felt. It's too late for this year's crop of strawberries, but tending to the earth is its own joy, and it feels so darned good.

Today I'm going to tackle another part of the yard. Bending over, wrestling with thick roots, lifting the yard waste container is quite a workout. My body complains about it for sure - but I can feel the glow, too. My body is not made to hunch over a desk in florescent lighting. My body longs to be outside, to move, to bend and twist and lift, to take many steps. The soil in my yard longs for compost. The soil in my soul longs for it, too.

It's so easy to get caught up in the cycle of early alarms, students with never-ending needs, sitting in a car during the commute, struggling to figure out dinner again. During the school year, I often forget what feeds my soul.

Gardening isn't my answer - there's no one answer, and if anyone saw my yard they'd know that I'm not much of a gardener (yet - there is always time!). But it's a piece of the answer.

My body loves to move (even when I don't want to). And it loves the fresh salads I've been making myself, with farro and lentils and fresh tomatoes and greens from the farmer's market. It loved dinner the other night, verdure griglia - lovely eggplant and peppers and a zucchini from my friend's garden, brushed with a wonderful olive oil filled with herbs and garlic - with a side of polenta and grilled halloumi. It felt decadent, but the truth is that it was just so incredibly simple.

Or is it? Maybe it's the most complicated thing ever: to sit on a deck with a peekaboo view of the Sound, surrounded by trees, eating fresh food in the sunshine with my daughter... maybe that's the most complicated, best thing ever. To do so after a day well lived (books, music, yard work, friends, errands) makes it sweeter. To be aware that this is a season where I have time and energy not available all year round makes it even sweeter. That meal was the cumulation of of a year's work... of a lifetime's work.

It's taken me a lifetime to feel this good. To see my daughter thriving in college, to living in community surrounded by good people I call friends, to have enough in my bank balance to keep panic at bay, to have work that is right for me and to know that I'm good at it and adding value to the world - this is the best of life. That dinner on the deck wasn't just about throwing some veggies on the grill, it was the result of decades of hard work.

I'm trying to work even harder so that I can figure out the next joys, too. I'm trying to forget old messages given to me by people who, in their own hurt and confusion, hurt me. I'm trying to remember the truth of my soul, not just because it's summer, but because it feels like the summer of my life. I've made it through some dark times when firewood was scarce and I felt like the cold might do me in, and now the sun is on my skin and the water is sparkling and the meadows are sweet.

My birth family has some tragically unhealthy habits, and the hurts they carry seeped into my bones, too. I feel for them: their wounds are raw and visible, even though they pretend they're not. My marriage threatened to make that my life, too - my marriage rules were dangerous to my soul, threatened to drown me. (In service of what, I wonder? It didn't serve him, either.)

But here I am, a decade away from the end of my marriage, and six years from the end of my relationship with my parents, and the pruning and weeding I've done is starting to pay off. My field was fallow for a long time, trying to forget what hurt me, but now I feel myself coming into life in a new way, remembering what came before the hurt, the things that I've known all along, and calling them into my life.

I'm writing again, and - gasp! - I like what I'm writing. It doesn't hurt to write this story, it doesn't call on me to have a dark night of my soul, to reveal the wounds and debride them. I'm having fun with it, exploring and wondering and feeling a deep tug within myself.

I'm moving my body more, and whether it's yoga, running, walking, SUP, hiking, or gardening, my body is grateful. I avoid the scale - unlike Bridget Jones, I refuse to let it tell me how much I'm worth - but I can feel the gentle changes, and I know it's trying to remember what it's meant to be, also. I'm reading more than I have in years. I've filled 1.5 journals so far this year. My garden is filled with fresh herbs. My daughter is filled with stories. My calendar is filled with plans. My toes are painted a color called "Follow your bliss." My bookcase is filled with old friends, and new treats awaiting me. My car is loaded with beach chairs and paddle boards and picnic blankets.

This is what summer is for. Every summer, I think, "oh - yes, this is who I am!" and get closer to who I am meant to be. Every summer I get a little closer, back to the person I'm trying to be. It's a gift, to be given this time, and I hope to use it wisely (which is not always "productively" - there is such joy in sitting on a log at the beach, or reading a fun novel*, or having a glass of Aperol spritz with a friend, and those things are not to be foregone in order to be productive; productivity has its place but so does relaxation).

It's time to forget patterns that don't serve me, and to remember who I am, and who I'm meant to be.

I'm creative. I was made to love and be loved. I'm a nature girl. I'm part mermaid. I am light. Well - that's the goal, anyway, and the journey today feels really good.

Happy summer!

* Emily Henry's "Happy Place" is such a joy. I sent copies to my two oldest friends to enjoy, too. It's a great love story, but more than that it's about friendships, and about overcoming old patterns. Ahhh. Delight!