Memory Holding Spaces

I’m sitting under twinkle lights in the backyard. Night’s warmth removed its cloak and a slightly chilly breeze reminds me we’re in the sweet spot of transition. That time where winter dodges spring and spring is more than ready for its turn to play.

I love the cozy mood of twinkle lights. We put some up several years ago. One strand draped from one tree and around the patio’s perimeter. A few weeks later, I found the cord dangling in more than one place. One strand, several cords dangling. On closer inspection, they were gnawed. Could the puppy jump high enough to get them?

No, it wasn’t the puppy. Too small.

Squirrels.

We replaced them with a longer strand with a thicker cord. Chew proof. We liked them so much, we measured from patio to tree, to second tree, to third tree, and pack to the patio. They hung low enough to cast a cozy glow over the entire backyard any time of year, even in the hot, sticky, throes of summer, cicadas dizzying us with their clatter as we sip drinks that don’t stay cold long, sweaty glasses holding sweet sips we sometimes press up to our foreheads for relief.

I’m sitting under the twinkle lights, around an empty fire pit that keeps us warm those fall evenings when we go out to roast marshmallows after we’ve holed ourselves up inside, protecting us from summer nights—still, in October—with sweaty glasses holding watered down drinks. We’ve grown tired of it and mosquito bites, and thick, suffocating air, and those cicadas. Their songs are on repeat, can they please stop?

I sit under the twinkle lights where 21 years ago we hung Ethan’s first birthday piñata, where parents helped their littles pull a string and candy sprinkled the yard. Kids bent over to pick some up and life was ripe with good expectations of the unknown parenting trek we all joined.

I sit under the twinkle lights where Sophia’s trampoline once stood. We sat on it. Jumped on it. Squealed. Laughed. It squeaked rhythmically, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again. We held hands and jumped in circles.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie! I chanted, making up a new word.

“Again, Mammy-Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”

On I went, jumping so hard my thighs burned and inevitably my calf muscles started cramping.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!

Miss Bonnie next door waves from her patio. Water drips from hanging baskets holding her geraniums. “You’re going to get lots of jumping out of that trampoline. You be sure to jump with her as much as you can. I can tell you’re having fun.”

I sit under the twinkle lights where my husband set up the new adirondak chairs for my 50th birthday party. The trampoline came down. My own piñata hung over the same tree Ethan’s did years ago. This time, mini bottles of rum and tequila with candy for the teens sprinkled the yard.

The bottles are for the adults!

The next morning, Sophia asks about the trampoline. The last time she used it was on her eleventh birthday two years earlier, sprinkler underneath, gangly pre-teens jumping and vying for space. “That’s my trampoline and I want it back,” she huffs.

Here I sit, under the twinkle lights. Four empty chairs join me in a circle. Paint chips off them in bits since we didn’t do anything to protect them from the elements. The trampoline’s circle is still here, but it’s been replaced with mulch, the fire pit, and five chairs, our new outdoor gathering space.

I hear a piñata crack. Candy falls and little hands reach for treats. Gone now, Miss Bonnie’s water spray drenches her plants. We hold hands and jump in a circle. Springs squeak, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!

“Again, Mammy Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”

It’s in the Saying

“Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”
Barbara Kingsolver

I (still) don’t have a door to close. I now have a spare room to call my own. My craft room. My “writing” room. Except I’m still perched at the end of the table in the kitchen. My writing cabinet holds the essentials: a caddy full of my favorite writing sticks, my current notebook, a planner, some books on creativity, cookbooks, mixology books, wine, and wine glasses.

I haven’t figured out what I want to say. Yet. I’m opening myself up to whatever story wants to be told as long as I’m brave enough to tell it. Julia Cameron says I need ask for guidance, and I do, but I must be blind to it. I’m a looks-too-hard type of person, making things harder than they need to be. I also like simplicity, so maybe it’s too simple because I thrive on complexity.

However, isn’t simple…complex? I think there’s a depth there few people are able to extract from effectively, a shallow looking pool that somehow becomes an abyss. With no one looking over my shoulder, I let whatever wants to be said, be said. Some days it’s in the saying where the figuring out happens.

Despite some changes to routines, I signed up for year four of this writing challenge. My only expectation is to show up every day. My morning pages have faltered from daily to weekends, but this will bump me back in the right direction. With spring teasing us, I’ve been sitting in the backyard under the twinkle lights, taking my pen and notebook with me, a sweater for the chill that unexpectedly curls itself around my shoulder. Half finished books on writing are opening up again. My mind is opening up again.

I’m also looking at other routines that have seemed to have slipped away. I re-assess. Are these things I need to continue doing? It’s okay to let some go and replace them with something new. Do they need replacing? I’m working on decluttering my space, but I also think decluttering my mind and responsibilities opens me up to welcome whatever comes my way. It’s acceptable to leave space wide open for a while. Why the rush to re-clutter?

This fourth year of slicing, I’ll focus on figuring out what to say. I’ll close the door behind me and enter the backyard in the evenings, before days get too hot and mosquitos feast on me. Pup will chew on mulch while sitting at my feet. I’ll start a cozy fire, careful not to accidentally pick up a lizard dwelling in the pile of wood. I’ll open my notebook and start writing whatever needs to be said.

The Real Thing: U2@Sphere-Las Vegas

Well my heart is where it's always been
my head is somewhere in between...

My body and brain are ready to take on customer service reps. I send a message to confirm availability for a Saturday pick up from the airport. Step one, done. I check concert ticket availability. I call the airline and it’s an easy switch. I’m leaving too early on Saturday, but I can nap on the way home.

I check several ticket apps, steering clear of the one I used. Final step: acquire a concert ticket. Finding one seat, I make the purchase. At this point, I’ve already lost money. You’re in Vegas, I tell myself through gritted teeth, keep at it. You’ll hit the jackpot soon enough.

Check email. Accept the ticket. Hold my breath…

There it is, the part that was missing from the last fiasco. Immediately directed to my ticket app, I follow the link to open the app and tap. There’s my ticket. I now have the option to add it to my phone’s wallet. I take the option so I’m not searching through a barrage of emails. I re-open the ticket app to make sure it’s there.

Yes.

I re-open my phone’s wallet to make sure it’s there too.

Affirmative.

One more try. I’ll be going alone this time and I’ll have to take an Uber, but I’m all set. I’ve never used Uber. I’ll download the app later.

Today, we’re having a late breakfast, hanging out at my uncle’s place, roaming around the art district, and checking out The Neon Museum. Tomorrow I’m going to the concert of my life. Alone. And I. Don’t. Care.

Friday morning I sleep in. My phone’s calendar reminds me of the flight I canceled. Today, I’m relaxing at my uncle’s place. I was supposed to leave today, so he went back to work. I have the place to myself and binge watch a Netflix reality show.

I’m taking an Uber to the concert. Send someone to look for me if you don’t hear back from me. You’ve heard of those crazy stories. I don’t want someone to throw me in the trunk, murder me and dump me in the desert, I message my sisters.

Don’t get in the car if you feel unsafe. You have gut feelings for a reason, they blip in return.

What do I do if there’s a glitch with the Uber? I can not have another glitch! I’ve scheduled my ride to pick me up at 6:30. Doors open at 6:00 and the concert starts at 8:30. My muscles twist themselves into tighter knots. Calm down, it’s fine. I decide to take an afternoon walk to get my mind off all of the scenarios that will prevent me from entering the mother ship once again.

I get a notification my driver has arrived. Her name is Jackie. Make eye contact and talk so you’re less likely to get murdered. I tell my brain to shut up. I enter her car and I’m greeted with a mini night sky of tiny LED lights changing from neon pink, to purple, to blue, to green, to yellow, and pink again. Whoopsies. I feel bad for thinking she’d hurt me.

Back at the orb rising out of the desert, I follow the crowd. Stopping for a selfie, I make my way up the stairs. I enter the building and get to the portal. This time, my ticket is in a different section; I don’t need escalators. My heart wants to jump out of my body. I can relax once I’m inside. Bono’s voice fills the room. The glow transports me out of this place.

Give me one more chance
and you'll be satisfied

I’m here early so there is no need to make small talk with people stuck in line. I enter the bag check point. I advance to a person with a scanner as I hold out my phone, barcode ready.

Give me two more chances
you won't be denied...

Scan.

“Enjoy the show.”

Sixteen year old giddy me wants to SCREAM! I get in line for merch and buy an overpriced hoodie. I enter my section and gasp. Is this real? I’m sitting HERE? I’m on row 25. Not far from the stage. My non-tickets were on the back end of the highest section.

The DJ starts the pre-concert music and the crowd in the pit begins to gather. I dance at my seat and ping my sisters. I made it! You should be here with me… I dance through the rest of the show. This concert as at this venue is like the Grand Canyon. You see pictures and video, but you have no idea how the experience moves you until you see it in person.

Even better than the real thing, yeah…

Did I Ask Too Much?: U2 @ Sphere Las Vegas

Did I disappoint you? Leave a bad taste in your mouth?

Yes, yes you did, but I don’t know who to blame. A bad taste in my mouth is an understatement. I was struck dumb. Numb. Speechless. What happened? I followed all of the directions. When my tickets didn’t load to my app, I contacted the ticket company two days before the event. I didn’t yell at anyone. I didn’t get drunk. I didn’t smoke something I shouldn’t. There was no tattoo I’d later regret. No zip lining in frustration from the Stratosphere.

We walked back to the hotel stopping for a drink along the way, but I didn’t want that either. I began drafting my email to customer service while we waited to order. Later, I got into my pajamas, tossed my sparkly tank over the top of a chair, worn for four concert-less hours. New boots didn’t have time to rub blisters on my feet.

I woke up at my normal Your-Brain-Is-Now-Wide-Awake time of 3:00-ish a.m., confirming it with a groggy one-eyed peek at the red lighted digital clock. I must have slept hard, I felt the morning ready to greet me. Ahh, different time zone, remember? It’s only 1:00. We’d just be getting back had we been there.

I flop back into bed feeling around for my eye pillow. I place it over my eyes and breathe deeply. Its soothing lavender scent is long gone. My brain props itself on an elbow wanting to talk. I need sleep! It presses with questions.

Can I change my flight? Will I get my money back? I mean, I did get tickets. But they didn’t work! Is E available to pick me up from the airport? I can find someone for a ride or just get an Uber. Are there tickets for Friday’s show or are they sold out? It doesn’t hurt to try. I’m too close not to go.

With or without you…

I’m hearing Bono sing. I can’t live, with or without you…

And I can’t live without trying, Bono!

Last year I was number 3,000 something in an online queue to snag a ticket for an interview with Brene Brown after he released his autobiography. I missed that one too. Tickets sold out in less than five minutes at a venue the size of a gnat compared to Sphere.

It could work out. Try it when the world wakes up. I mother myself back to sleep. Shush my brain. Go back to sleep, you can’t do anything until later. It’s fine. Weren’t you okay with not going in the first place?

Well, yeah, but that was before I bought tickets.

You’ve got to get yourself together, you’ve got stuck in a moment and you can’t get out of it…

Shhh…go back to sleep. Try again, later in the morning.

It’s just a moment, this time will pass…

Stuck in a Moment: U2 @ Sphere-Las Vegas

I’ve waited most of my life to see my favorite band. I’ve never been much of a concert go-er, but this one topped my list of things to do for a fulfilling life. My funcle lives in Las Vegas, no need to hunt down hotel bargains. However, once concert ticket x 3 is out of our budget since we also want a summer vacation. Plus meals, plus airline tickets…a solo trip is easier. A little.

I downloaded several ticket apps. Checked prices, sections, looked at videos people posted, how can I not make this happen? It’s Sphere, a planet-building emerging from the desert, with U2 inside. Ticket prices seemed to drop the day of the concert. If I get there, wait until the day of the concert, maybe…

My husband and 14 year old gave me a “meh,” when I asked if they wanted to go. I didn’t need much convincing to go without them. I booked a flight, made arrangements to hang out with my uncle, who is more like my older brother, and decided to wait on the ticket. People resell tickets all the time. If I don’t make it, there are plenty of other places and events to see.

…but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for

I arrived in Vegas on Tuesday, December 6th to attend the concert on Wednesday. I scheduled my return flight for Friday. I figured a mid-week concert ticket would be a easier to snag than one happening over the weekend. This was before I knew they extended their residency through the first weekend in March. And so goes the world of not being up to par with concerts.

Not being much of a risk-taker, and certainly not one who gambles, I gambled anyway and bought two tickets four days early. My uncle would go with me. Who goes to a concert alone? Worse, what if they’re sold out? My youngest brother is also a fan, and I kept him and my sisters updated on this trip since I booked my flight in October. We contemplated a sibling outing so we could rock out together. It didn’t work. Like taking family pictures, it’s hard to get everyone in the same frame at the same time.

I kept them posted on everything in real time, but told them I’d enjoy the concert once we were there. I prioritized presence, but everything leading up to it didn’t count.

It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away…

A beautiful night, anyway. We hike to the venue and figure out where to enter. I don’t know where to look. Do we take pictures in front of the massive orb or get in line and wait until after the concert? We decide to get in line. My heart wants to jump out of my body and I’m sixteen year old giddy. So many people! We’re in a portal about to board a mother ship to take (us) out of this place.

Tickets are ready and an usher directs us to another line even though it isn’t our assigned section. Scan. Scan. Scan. Scan. Small talk with people around us.

“We’ve waited for…”

“This is our second time…”

“We came all the way from…”

My barcodes are ready and I hold my phone up to the reader. The usher asks me to scan the second one. We try again.

ACCESS DENIED

“A lot of people are having this issue. Go to the service desk and they’ll get you in.” The usher continues scanning everyone else. Smiling at our line mates, we head to the desk to wait in another line. There’s more small talk with a guy who flew in a few hours earlier form Monterrey, Mexico. People are getting scanned or their tickets are getting printed.

Sleight of hand and twist of fate

Two young ladies make their way to the counter. “Are there tickets left?” The person helping us informs them it’s sold out. The lines have thinned. The deep U2 instrumental tones welcoming everyone have become louder as people found their seats. It starts soon.

My phone has stopped pinging.

I ping my sisters even though they’re probably already in bed.

I’m at a place called vertigo…it’s everything I wish I didn’t know…

Homecoming 2023

She makes a little yippy barky growl.

“I got asked to homecoming!”

I don’t have time to comment.

“And HE MADE ME A SIGN! But you won’t get it, so I’m not showing it to you.”

Wait. Brain uploads. I’m not sure whether I should ask questions, comment, shrug, or jump with excitement and scream. Regardless, the wrath of Queen Teen will be upon me. Off with my head!

I say “Congratulations! Were you expecting it?”

“No! And he made me a sign!” She makes that little yippy barky growl again, rounding it out with a squeal this time. “He put all of these cool things only I understand. You wanna see the picture?”

“Sure.”

I barely have time to process the image, on top of the fact that I can hardly see anything with my wonky middle-aged vision. I have to ask again. “Hold still this time and at least let me take a look.”

There they are, her little friend guy holding a sign asking her to homecoming. She said yes, and so begins the process…

Buying the tickets. “I don’t want to go to the game though, just the dance. But we need to buy the tickets now so they don’t sell out.” Poof, request granted.

“I need to shop for a dress, but I don’t want to go with you. I’m going with Ash and her mom.” Poof, request granted.

“We are going to the game so now I need a ticket for that.” Poof, request granted.

“I can’t walk in the sparkly shoes you have in your closet. I want Dad to take me shoe shopping.” Poof, request granted.

I ordered a boutonniere, picked it up, and took her for pictures with him before the big event. His mom drove them to dinner and the dance and I picked them up afterward.

After several messages and driving around the school several times I found them, along with other teen couples awaiting their parents’ pumpkin carriage rides home. I see them and she’s wearing his shoes. Her shoes dangle from his finger. They climb in the back seat and I don’t say a word.

On our way home, her little yippy barky growl with a squeal unleashes the evening’s events. “Did you see, Mom, did you see? My feet hurt, so he took off his shoes so I could wear them! He walked around in his socks all night just so I could be comfortable. He’s so sweet!“

Yes, I did see, but I didn’t tell her.

All Hallow’s Drink

Halloween B.C., before children, we figured out going on a date scored us a short wait time and a good table. In previous years, we bought candy, but no one showed up.

Twenty one years ago, I had a thirty day old baby boy. We lived in a new neighborhood and with that came expectations of handing out candy to cute little kids dressed in fun costumes. Except this Halloween, my boy cried all day. I had a defrosted bun-less veggie burger for lunch at 5:00 in the afternoon. I didn’t shower and I couldn’t calm this baby down. Then the knocking started. And more crying. Then a phone call from my husband announcing his car wouldn’t start. We ate out again and returned home to a bowl full of candy.

Later, we left candy on the porch with a sign for kids to take two pieces. E has been dressed as a frog, a bowl of spaghetti, a train engineer, a chef, Indiana Jones, Thunder Pickle (his own invented character). S. joined us as a Chiquita banana. Then they both asked for candy as Phineas from Phineas & Ferb with a rockstar, Harry Potter and a police officer, Jek-14 and a low-key ballerina, Minecraft Steve with a black kitty cat, a meme with a unicorn.

A quick dinner of chicken nuggets or pigs-in-a-blanket preceded early evening candy hunting. We couldn’t eat early enough before the doorbell alerted us to kids asking for candy as we tried heading out ourselves. The transition from giving to getting was always tricky, but always worked itself out.

As E grew up, his trick-or-treating morphed into a belated birthday party in the garage with friends, complete with pizza and bottled root beer. It also cost taking S. around the neighborhood while I handed out candy and made sure the pizza was ordered, paid, and delivered. The candy bowl now had a companion. E later took over it while I gathered S. and her friends, meeting them at the end of each street, an exasperated “Mom! Why can’t I just go with my friends? Without you?”

E’s garage parties have come to an end. S. has new friends. A few days ago, she also requested a garage party. Then she decided to take over candy duty because, as she explained, “I’m a little too old for trick-or-treating. It’s a little kid thing. I shouldn’t take candy from them.”

By Sunday, she needed a costume.

“What happened to letting little kids have their candy?”

“My theater friends want me to go with them. We’re all going together.”

This afternoon, my husband and I went to happy hour. S. went home with a friend with plans for trick-or-treating later. I sat on the front porch and attempted to git rid of all of the candy. Older kids loved my costume. S. didn’t comment when she saw me later that night.

Halloween happy hour might be our next tradition. Perhaps next year, we’ll also be the full sized candy bar house.

Inspiration

She disappeared for most of summer break and I think she’s back, jet-lagged, holed up in her room, sleeping. It’s been hotter than usual this summer, and for central Texas, that’s saying a lot. I’m a summer girl. It’s my favorite season and I can handle the heat. I never said anything about hell. Anyhow, Inspiration left me here to shrivel up with the trees, grass, ponds. On the plus side, the mosquitoes didn’t feast on me. Didn’t miss them one bit.

Inspiration on the other hand, I missed her. It was summer break, we could hang out. All day, every day. I don’t know if I upset her because I started spending time with painting walls and notebook pages. I save notebooks for words and I think she got upset. Share the page, Chica, but you don’t have to leave. Was she jealous or did she disappear to give me some space?

I did set up a room for her. I filled it with books and a comfy daybed for when she wants to nap, stick around, read. Paint. Attempt to draw. (Shhh, I won’t tell anyone I can’t figure out what’s on the page. The point is to try). The closet is empty for her to unpack her luggage. Am I ready to see what she brought home? Did she bring me something? Did she travel across the world? Universe?

Yesterday, during cafecito with my mom via Facetime, she mentioned my writing. “I miss reading your posts every week.”

“Yeah, I kinda shriveled up this summer. I got busy doing other things. Tuesdays would sneak up on me and by the time I knew it, I missed my post. But no one says I can only post on Tuesdays though.”

“I like reading your writing.”

Okay, well, maybe tomorrow I think as I grin and sip the last of my coffee. Mom is one of my biggest fans.

This afternoon, an unexpected package arrived. I thought it was an order that shipped last week, so I checked the tracking. It couldn’t have arrived so quickly. Sure enough, it’s still in transit. Perplexed, I double checked the label. Sometimes packages are delivered to the wrong address, but this one had my name on it.

A surprise! I found a lovely box holding a literary inspired cocktail recipe book, a sticker, and fingerless gloves. I had a hunch who sent it and sent a message. A dear friend confirmed to be the sender of the package. The gloves she selected were specifically to inspire my writing. If that’s not a sign to get back on track, I don’t know what is.

This summer, Inspiration couldn’t stand the heat.

Things harden.  Wither.  Weaken.  Die.
Others go dormant
take a break
rest
find ways to cope,
stretching for every ounce of
hydration to sustain the soul
while taking a beating on the outside
cracking
struggling
looking for relief 
anywhere
staying where its cool(-ish), 
shady
coming out for what's necessary and
retreating back to safety
resilient like cactus
but even cacti need water

She came back. We won’t argue about her leaving me alone. I won’t ask about where she went. If she needed a break from the heat, I don’t blame her. Perhaps she needed a break from me. I should’ve tagged along, but I wasn’t invited. I’ll let her recuperate from jet-lag. We have a lot of catching up to do.

The Summer of…

I used to name my summers, give them a theme in hopes of having something to do. I suppose I was setting an intention before setting intentions became a thing.

One year, it was The Summer of Learning. I taught myself to knit and made scarves in the comfort of an air conditioned home while sweltering triple digit temperatures fried the yard. I had a guitar and tinkered with it for a while, but I didn’t get far. I had a three year old and it mainly revolved more about his learning than mine. A summer with a three year old certainly counts for something though. After several summers, I lost track, had another child, and got too busy to even think about naming them.

As the end of the school year became a reality, a friend asked what I’d name this summer. I hadn’t thought of it. Great question. I contemplated.

The Summer of Breaking Free.

My life is good, but there are things I still hold back on. One of them is following through on projects here and there. The fun ones I long to do, but don’t seem to make time for while I’m working because I’m flat out tired. I have a fresh fourteen year old, so I’m now the resident Uber driver. Then there are the necessary projects that best lend themselves to be done during the long stretch of summer break. Look at flooring samples. (Probably best to budget for it first). All the paperwork in case something happens to us. Repaint bedrooms. Might as well paint the bathrooms while we’re at it. And don’t the cabinets need to be replaced too? Yeah, breaking free seems to be more of a long term commitment I didn’t want.

I signed up for a virtual craft and art workshop earlier this month. It’s free, within my price point. I also participated last year and completed some projects. Regrettably, I didn’t purchase access to the courses. This year, I allowed myself to purchase access because the instructors were fantastic, down to earth, and encouraging. For a full week, I connected with thousands of people from around the world and followed along for watercolor orange slices, planner doodling, mandalas, making a stamp from an eraser, sketch noting, block lettered paper collage, illustrated and cut bursts of happiness with sticky notes, and mixed media florals.

This led to cracking open a new notebook, not for writing, but for playing around. For a week I put my work in there and I’m popping in to view the sessions I didn’t have time to complete. I’m not out to become an artist, but it sure has helped me do something beyond my comfort zone. My medium of choice is words. Doing something I’m not great at is a way to stretch myself. I intended for my notebook to be a wordless journal, but some sessions involved journaling, a change I didn’t expect.

One big idea instructors continued to remind everyone was that of embracing what’s on the page (or canvas). If you make a mistake, it just becomes a part of the piece. Keep going and let it be what it wants to be.

Last week my body ached from painting. Walls. My daughter moved into my son’s ex-bedroom and she went in all interior decorator mode with a fierce vision of how she wanted to make it hers. (She is an artist). It took her all of ten minutes to choose her paint color. Dark Ash.

I’ve renamed it Teen Goth.

Her room will become my craft and writing room-at least that’s the plan. I’ve narrowed down my color choices to three. I’m indecisive, but I’m ready to have my own room. Our kitchen table is tired of having me perched at one end with a hot mess of whatever project I happen to be working on. My husband is tired of it too. Soon we’ll be able to eat at our kitchen table without having to shove everything to one side. But first, there’s the paint color. Maybe I’ll close my eyes, spin around three times and point at one. Otherwise it might wait until next summer. I can always repaint if I don’t like the color.

This seems to be The Summer of Painting. Should I rename it? I think I’ll hold on to my original title because painting and doing something other has helped me break free from the walls I put up around myself. On to the next project!

Crammed

Summer break is like packing for a road trip. First, there’s a list of things to do. One for projects around the house. Declutter. Re-paint E’s now empty room and make it my own. Plant those seeds I picked up from the library, yes, the library. Clean all of the things that need deep cleaning: the fridge, windows, oven, the exterior of the house. Get into a routine, which I say every summer. But my routine consists of sleeping in and staying up late, honoring my night-owl nature that takes a backseat for ten months.

Great for a summer potluck. This will be lunch the rest of the week. Fortunately, it’s tasty.

The next list is eating well, hydrating (not with mid-day mimosas), adding more workouts to my regular ones, trying new recipes. Today I made a pasta salad with peas, asparagus, and a ricotta-lemon-basil dressing I’ll be eating the rest of the week. I keep forgetting to cut our recipes in half. There’s a watermelon my husband brought home this afternoon added to the one already sliced and chilled in the fridge. No worries though, if we don’t eat it, we’ll drink it. Watermelon limeade for the teen and watermelon mojitos or margs for us.

Then there’s the reading list. By default of my profession, my 2023 reading list is announced every fall and chock-full of thirty middle grade titles. I’ve only read three so far, but I managed to bring too many home for summer break. I need options. That’s in addition to the books on my TBR list. Sometimes I buy the books instead because I’m a slow reader or the wait is long at the library. Currently, I’m reading The Hacienda by Isabel Cañas. I don’t read it right before bed though, because I’m chicken and horror isn’t my go-to genre.

It’s birthday season in our family. Teen turns fourteen on Saturday and I’ve already managed to mess up one of the gifts. Sigh. I’m making those (mental) gift buying lists and will myself to at least get them sent during the birthday month. I’m a late gift giver. However, I’ve never had anyone turn down a belated birthday gift. I delivered one to a friend just last week. Her birthday was in March. I think the gift knew it would wait for June since we had a carefree, impromptu lunch date.

Next time I’ll just use a Sharpie. Drawing with a paintbrush isn’t easy.

My list seems to get shoved way in the back. Sometimes it’s forgotten. I’m working it in. I signed up for a virtual crafting class this week. I treated myself to purchasing it. Last year I participated and didn’t buy it and I regretted it. I get access to the replays indefinitely as opposed to 24 hours. This allows me to attend to the musts. I managed to get play with two projects. I’m a perfectionist, so this one is hard for me. Instructors remind us not to worry about the finished project. Enjoy the process. Be patient. Take your time. Play.

Next time, use watercolor paper. And use a compass that works to draw circles. Oh, and be patient.

And that’s what summer is about. You pack up your car and cram it with everything you need to get to your destination. But I have to remind myself to take a detour. Enjoy the ride. There’s no rush to get through summer. Sip on some water, sip on some watermelon concoction. Make mistakes and cover it up if need be. Or let it shine in all it’s beautiful glory.