It’s too cold to go barefoot these days. I’ve been pulling long-sleeved blouses and light sweaters from the “winter clothes” closet and know that soon I’ll be switching over, putting the summer clothes away for the season. Except for some cherry tomatoes, two cabbages, one lone cucumber still on its trellis and the fall raspberries, the garden is over. It’s been a good one this year. I’ll put the pumpkin on the front porch for Halloween before I make a pie out of it.
I love winter in the Pacific Northwest. I love the rain, the cold, the bare trees, the fog, the onslaught of gardening catalogs.
Normally, I look forward to each turn of season. I love spring–of course, doesn’t everyone? But for some reason, this year I’m reluctant to put summer away in its closet. This year I’m feeling a little melancholy, as if I didn’t partake of summer enough. Instead of thinking of all the fun things I did, I seem to be dwelling on the things I didn’t have time to do.
Hmmm. Change that to “things I didn’t take the time to do.”
My life was as full–to overflowing, as always–this summer as it always is. I didn’t bike enough. I didn’t hike enough. I didn’t fish enough, and though I did all of those things, as I get older, time compresses, and I can see that I should have done more of them, because I love doing those things.
I did other things that I love, though, and more of them. I spent a lot of time in the garden, and it was glorious. I raised chickens and got a dog. I wrote a lot, sold a book, some essays and some short stories, taught a few classes, finished a degree, spent quality time with cherished friends and family.
In all, I did life well this summer.
But did I do summer?
I see that I could have done summer better. So now that fall is upon us, I vow to do fall very well, and winter after that. And next summer, if I’m fortunate enough to be on the right side of the dirt when it shows up, I’ll do it very well indeed.