Dear Summer . . .

Here I am, nudging the line of spring into summer's territory. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is report card day. Translation: Summer starts tomorrow. The grades are done, the room is packed, and the requisitions are nearly finished. Yes, I'm eager. My plan is to leave school tomorrow and not go back until August. Not to clean, not to work, and not to visit. Nothing until August.

This year, summer vacation is sacred. I do not exaggerate when I say the next two months are therapeutic--they are restorative and healing. After a school year that only administrators and lunatics would call good, this summer is to be treasured. For two months, I am in charge of my time and who shares it.

I will stay up until I'm tired and sleep until I'm not. I will be part of a love triangle involving my camera and my hammock, splitting my hours between the two. I have photography skills to learn and a newborn to photograph. I have a pile of books and hours to spare. I have an iPod Touch and wireless internet. This year, I deem all these things necessary.

Yes, summer has a project in me. Summer has work to do, because this year has drained me. There are a few requests I have of summer: May my brain recharge enough that I can finish a book in a respectable amount of time and a sentence without searching for words; may my body recharge enough that I stop looking like shit and feeling like yesterday's shit; and may my attitude recharge enough that I rise out of the bitchy range . . .

I'm kidding about that last request; bitchy is fun. Really.

So, Summer, here I am. Heal me. Relax me. Relearn me. Warm me. Massage me. Summer, work your magic.

This Is the Time

If only I could take a picture of a fragrance, I could capture today. My yard is blessed with a fragrance so powerful it's nearly tangible. No chemical, no scientist, no candle can capture this scent, and who knows how long the scent will last. If only I could take its picture and save it forever. Spring.

After what seemed like a never-ending winter, spring is solidly in our midst, and we in hers. The lawn is lush, the lilacs are in full bloom, the apple blossoms are waning, and the lilies of the valley are sneaking their tiny white blessings into the air. The overwhelming and unadulterated beauty is a welcome assault on the senses. This is perfection beyond the control of man. Spring.

As the flowers grow, so does the peace. Our bodies relieve our minds. Bare feet are just around the corner, pant cuffs are inching their way toward pasty-pale knees, freckles are emerging from hibernation, and hard-earned callouses are fast forming. Spring.

After months of keeping nature out of the house and ourselves in, windows are open. Friends linger a few moments longer at the propped-open-on-a-toe back door; we venture out to the patio and coerce the weather into coming inside. We drag it with us on sheets hung out to dry and bouquets snatched from trees along our path. After months of man vs. nature, we are one. Spring.

This is the time, finally. Woven into a child's hair is the singular scent of a day spent outside. Worn into the soft lines of a mother's hand is the love of her flowers. Young neighborhood shouts are hushed by the newly-green leaves on the trees, and a voice glides down the block, calling children in for delicacies from garden and glen. With every sense God gave us, it is here. Spring.