Face to the Sun
It’s still very much summer in New England.
I mean, despite the roll out of pumpkin spice lattes at Starbucks and the promotion of hard ciders and pumpkin ales at local breweries, despite school systems coughing into gear after the mild stasis of a couple months off…despite whatever you may have heard, it is still summer. There are still leaves on trees (although some are starting to turn), it is still 90 degrees, and I’m still finding myself—even now in September—getting tanner.
Usually, at the end of a season I’m thrilled to see it go. No more dirty snow piles and cracked lips in March, and no more soggy leaves and indecisive fashion choices in December (by then it’s no longer a question of whether or not a sweater is too warm). But this year, I somehow feel like everyone is jumping the gun for fall and I’m digging my heels in.
Fall, of course, represents many things. Introspection, education, productivity, my birthday, planning for the winter up ahead, decay. And I’m sure that they all play their part in my hesitation for its arrival. But really, I’ll be as ready as I can be when the leaves start to fall, and the sun starts to set earlier and earlier in the sky—I just don’t appreciate rushing it, not any more than I appreciate Thanksgiving decorations in October or Christmas music in November. To reference a fictitious writer in a popular French film, it’s passing the time to force the time to pass, all the while avoiding the present.
And sometimes the present sucks. Sometimes thinking of the future is a better use of the present. But, for those moments when that isn’t true, why not enjoy these last days of summer?