Each summer seems to have a theme or a raison d'etre. Last summer or maybe the summer before, I felt compelled to bring a little left bank to my small New England town and start think tank salons with all my gal friends. They didn't bite or I didn't push or both. We remain salon-less unless you count our fancy hairdos.
This is the Syrup Summer. Everything is hot and hazy and slow moving. I seem to be stuck in a kind of lethargy brought on by humidity and grief and yearning to be free of something. Sometimes, it is my kids reciting the same litany of complaints: WE are bored, we are bored, we are bored. How can that be when you have been in nonstop camps since the end of June? You have biked, hiked, crafted, swam in the ocean, in ponds, made smores, caught fireflies, frogs, and butterflies. I'm working up a little lecture on negative space.....the need to experience solitude and read and do nothing to appreciate the canvas of life. They are not biting. Maybe they are trapped in syrup too.
In the syrup summer, I am worried about the health of a loved one. The bigger than life elder in the clan who I can't imagine going anywhere except to raise hell somewhere. We love you and are with you in this.
So, swim on through the sickly sweet substance that has you in it's grasp. Even if it is just an overdone metaphor.