I USED to think of summer as an illusion of rest and revival; a hazy season stitched together by slow mornings and days so mundane they blur into each other, only to be racked with busy weekends and blistering outdoor plans.
And yet, I find myself on neither end.
As soon as the heat starts to linger within the crevices of my room, the flowers by the windowsill begin their final reach toward the sun. The cracks on the soil now turn into the lines on my palm.
Soon, I notice the silence creeping in: one that does not settle, but echoes like a storm that has merely passed.
Suddenly, friends slowly chase beginnings and ends; a dead-end job, dream careers or a version of themselves they have not met yet. I, however, remain suspended in the middle—sun-soaked and unhurried—as if waiting for indefinite rain drops from the sky.
While this stillness glooms a sense of stagnancy, there lies a steady promise of becoming. A pause that does not equate to being obsolete.
Maybe, this apparent equivocation is why I have learned to appreciate the vase of withered flowers for what they are, quietly standing still by our window. They are no longer blooming, yet they are still holding memories of their becoming.
Brittle and delicate as they may seem, their gentle fade remains a certainty that something once thrived here. This season, with all its tranquility, is not barren.
Somehow, this period has relieved me, even for a moment, of the pressures to fill a void.Perhaps, this too is a kind of becoming; a season of change yet choosing to remain, anyway. Not rushing into fully blooming nor breaking—just being. F
