I’m probably one of the few people I know who eagerly counts the days until school begins. Not that I ever would wish summer away. As a wife and mother of two young children, the warmer months are devoted to visits with friends, field trips and vacations. There’s also a good amount of lazing about, punctuated by sunscreen applications, scraped-knee clean ups and meal prep.
With all of its activity, summer is an excellent time for outer explorations—those experiences that fill the well for any artist. I find vacations especially flood the senses in surprising, and ultimately necessary ways. The contemplation of a foreign landscape, the sound of an unfamiliar voice, the taste of a new meal, any one of them sets synapses firing, thoughts ricocheting across webs of neurons, forging new connections, the traces of which settle deep into memory, safely stored and awaiting retrieval upon our return to our desks.
That’s really my greatest frustration with summer: not having that time at my desk, the luxury to retreat inward, those uninterrupted hours when there won’t be someone just outside the office door hollering for a Band-Aid or a juice box. My seasons as a mother are arranged a little differently, I suppose, and so September is very much my New Year. This is the month when I take stock, reassess, make resolutions.
This year I’ve resolved to devote myself more fully to my fiction writing.