Home grown summer

A small collections of thoughts in my head from the long weekend

I biked home slowly at 10pm through quiet residential streets, Fourth of July fireworks periodically announcing themselves and sparkling through the treetops. I pulled off to the side of the road to watch a group of people set them off in the park; I loved how they first boomed, then sparkled. I wondered who these people were — how did they know one another, were they my neighbors? //

I’m having a summer that feels like the one when I was 25. That summer was significant—I began feeling like myself. I began liking who I was. I remember drinking too many glasses of wine, picking something up at the farmers market every Sunday to make an elaborate meal for myself, hot yoga, live jazz in the park, thrifting and wearing girly frilly things. I spent a lot of time outdoors, just with myself. In a way, it feels like I’m living the same life again—like I paused it and now I’ve pressed play. Was I on pause the last two summers? Maybe. Or maybe I was just playing a different soundtrack, slowly remixing pieces of me. But the music where I return to me; this one is my favorite. //

I’m watching my garden grow. I find myself more connected to the earth, proud of the little seedlings that have made their way, hoping for rain at times. I collect the arugula, and dill that’s grown. It’s growing like mad. I fill the watering can over and over pouring the water over the plant like a meditation, imagining the plant thirstily drinking to its roots. I eat it and marvel, I grew this in Chicago? //

Having a cat is teaching me how to love and how to be loved — unconditionally. She is funny and naughty and sweet. She knocks things off my dresser. I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. She wakes me up every morning and follows me around. She sits and watches me get ready. She brings me a toy to play. She loves me no matter what. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks. //

It’s powerful to remember that all I need to do is be me. I’m a summer baby. I ripen in the summer, but in a way that surprises me each year. At first I’m too hot, my brow sweats the moment I open the door. But then, I settle. I resist until I surrender. It’s easier to swim with the current than against it. //

For the Fourth, I was by the lake. It seemed like everyone in Chicago was there. The next morning, after an early run along the lake, I went to the ledge to jump in. I needed to swim, to rinse off the salt dried to my cheeks, to feel the cold water on my skin. On my way, I saw piles of trash next to the overflowing bins, discarded firework casings scattered along the concrete. By 8 a.m., the workers had begun collecting it, slowly, piece by piece. A new day begins. //

Thanks for reading!

xo,

Anna Bee