The first day of summer is a potent beast, wrapped up in a mix of nostalgia, expectation, and languorous pauses. This day is as much about the past as it is about the near future and I wake feeling some pressure to successfully bridge the two.
Some pressure, but not too much.
And so, I dillydally in bed, letting 5 a.m. become 5:30 until I can't stand the thought of the day unfolding without me. Finn hops atop the bed when he realizes I'm making "awake" sounds and we share a minute or two of quiet chatter. Soon, I've slipped on a pair of shorts and some sandals, brushed my teeth, run a hand through my hair and am heading downstairs to greet the two out of three Holts who happened to have beaten me there.
It is an awesome morning, unusually calm with an awakening sky that is punctuated by cotton batting. Mark is reading the paper in the library, the door half cocked and a wayward moth seeking refuge under the shade of our lamp. Outside, two robins are exchanging the Dozens, their insults delighting and appalling the more staid Cardinals, aptly named and appropriately forgiving.
And me? Well, I'm not even sure what day it is, my brain having been swept clean in the middle of the night. Even the time of day escapes me as Mark and I head out on our first summer bike ride, my body and bike finding their old rhythm.
This first day of summer, punctuated with quiet and smiles, outdoor time and family, is not one for the books. There is nothing Tweet-worthy or perhaps even blog-worthy about it. Which tells me that I am doing it just fine, thank you.
For not everything that matters in life is a clanging bell wrapped up in neon lights.
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