Long
summer days
13 January, 2000
There's a softness about summer that I adore. You find it at the edges of the day, in the early morning and as the evening turns to dusk.
You find it in the morning when the sun has just risen over the hills and shines warm yellow light into your room. When there's the promise of heat but not the heat itself, not yet. And things are soft around the edges, still discovering their shape after the night's darkness.
You find it in the evening, when it's still and you hear sounds drifting from far away, carrying in the shimmering air. When the sunset sky is all pink and rose and orange, melting into the sea and a big ship is sailing into the horizon. And the house carries a heavy warmth from the day's sun, something you feel when you step into the room.
I jogged this evening, slow easy steps down the hill, along the flat and back up again. A measured pace, not hurrying, knowing the only way is to ease myself back into fitness. And I managed some sit-ups and push-ups in between stretching, my shoulders ache in a good way. It's so easy for me to forget the joy of simple physical exercise. It's so easy for me to talk myself out of doing anything. It's nice when I don't listen to myself.
It's a pleasurable silence as I sit here, still warm from my shower. The only sounds are the hum of the computer and rustle of papers as Deb makes notes. And the occasional car fading off into the distance. Deb's sitting next to me, her feet propped up on the computer desk wearing rather incongruous sheepskin slippers. She rubs her lip softly with the back of her finger, something she does when she's concentrating. She worries that she won't finish her thesis, but I know she will.
Long summer days. Shorts, t-shirt and jandals and that softness serving as both a prelude and a coda to the day.