~an early summer installation~

I wake up everyday with the same overwhelming anticipation for an alarm clock that won’t ring for several more hours. Summer. I have come to breathe it in my routine, or lack thereof. The way I allow myself to move with slow strides, the careful watching of my morning waffle suddenly pop from the rusting toaster, the sipping of my tea that is an event in itself. I don’t rush when it is 9 or 10 or 11, but I just let the stagnant draft roll over me. That cool summer air that for most teenagers is sheer bliss, timed to perfection, accounted for, and restful peace-absent of any pressing entity.

Summer for me seems much different these days, however, than it did when I was younger. My bounds were so set in stone then and I readily agreed upon each limitation. I had a designated perimeter that I could scooter or bike around, I had the neighborhood friends whose doors I could knock on in the morning and leave through at night, I had shows that could inspire my entire day as I’d tinker the way a fairy would or attempt a meal Bobby Flay had mastered. I was well-defined and adjusted my summer to these rules.

But now I am in an age in which I feel restless in the night. The time I usually spent studying my courses and absorbing more of the world around me, is spent browsing the news or watching a film until I am too drowsy to continue. I’ll go on runs around the park near my house at sunset time, praying my allergies don’t sprout from the grass, and feel occasional boosts of energy that recharge my summertime strides. I ponder about my future in college. I still read, still write, but I have no sense of urgency. Now or then makes no difference to me. I wake up, I pull the sheets, and I have this ability to lay right back down with the same warmth pervading my body the way it did seconds prior. The rare times my serenity is disturbed are the instances of my mandated work schedule, or my neighbor’s early morning gardening cycles.

There are these fleeting thoughts I have, as I want to act upon a degree of spontaneity–some impulse of grandeur–that is simply beyond the capabilities of an average person. I see people traveling the world, taking pictures of their stroll in European alleyways or capturing surreal views found on just brief hikes in Norwegian trails, and I think about how my several-mile treks around the neighborhood barely scrape the surface of such beauty. As the day nears its end and I unravel my pink sheets, taking in once more the air that carries some on a crazed adventure, I allow myself the silence of a large white fan blowing away the heat, along with my sense of untamed and continuous possibility.

With a few weeks passing, I now have come to acknowledge that a change in perspective could cure my tottering blues. In order to feel content or as if I have control of my settings, I realize firstly that I have to accept my age. I am not the child that waved her plastic sword and swished through the grasses in her backyard. But with that in mind, I also cannot expect some midday flight across the world. The only way for me to be loving of all that is around me and all that is to come, is to appreciate that which is my routine in this moment in time, and hold onto the people that in a few months will be pressing their noses in a world previously unknown.

I have to find the summer around me. I reopen my eyes to a rose by my bedside table-the kind fresh from a florist. Erect and poignant, it resists drooping and casts a scent beautiful in itself. I can appreciate a slow paced life. I now recognize the notches in the cuckoo clock and the fading yellow paint of the rooster that emerges from green stained window-panes, hanging by a small screw, at every hour passing. I liken to customers, both the annoying and perfectly humble kind, as they are people with unique stories spinning their tales. Each page in a book is some sort of transcription of an author’s legacy. I marvel at the way chatting with friends can go for hours and leave me gleaming by a conversation, joyously gilded by the company of another. The morning cup of chai, with milk foaming at the mug’s rim, pairs perfectly with my latest read. The music that pours from artists far and wide fill my soul with the knowledge of what talent and passion can create. My runs are infinite in speed, direction, and motivation. I take notice that the evening sun that sets will be greatly different once I leave for college, and so I deliberately savor each ray of light as a product of mother nature’s excellence.

Summer could be the bright glistening jewel of a child’s eye, but through the eyes of a matured voice, growing with time, could mean so much more and endlessly inspire my mind.