I always consider Memorial Day the unofficial start to Summer. The days start to speed up, gathering momentum as they go, which makes it seem like the most fleeting of all the seasons to me.
I was discussing with a friend today how, on the days leading up to a long weekend, my energy levels tend to spike. I make a list. I make several lists. Of things I'd like to do, of things I should do. Should I repaint the dining room (it has been five years)? Should I bake bread? Should we take a road trip? Should I read Maugham's entire life's work? My head starts spinning.
When we were little, summer days stretched luxuriously before us. We had no cognitive grasp of mortality and this made us rather cavalier about how we spent our summer days. This knowledge can be a good thing; it gives our lives purpose and direction. It forces us to think about what kind of legacy we want to leave behind, but must it take away from our desire to seek adventure?
Maturity brings responsibilities that shape our choices, even how we spend our time. But I think I'll take my friend's advise and do a little bit of nothing ... what will you be doing?
