By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
This time of the summer is complicated in these parts.
There are so many things that just aren’t really quite how you’d want them to be.
I first noticed it in the sky. While squinting in the bright sunlight and keeping an eye on some suspiciously dark-looking clouds off in one direction, I noticed that the sky had a rather unique color.
We all know that in autumn there are beautiful, intense azure skies. I actually noticed earlier this year that the sky color in spring isn’t half bad either and can be especially vivid with the bright chartreuse of freshly sprouted leaves contrasted against it.
But the sky that I saw a few days ago while watching for the classic summer thunderstorm caught me a bit off guard. It wasn’t even truly blue. It was pale and almost sickly-looking. There may have been a tint of blue, but it was just a washed-out version of the color. The whole firmament seemed faded and out of sorts. There was even almost a faint pallor of yellow to it, seemingly in some way tainted.
It seemed certain to me that if I had been in a hot-air balloon, there would have been an aroma that would have scrunched my face with displeasure.
Even the breezes sailing the clouds along and rustling the trees weren’t satisfactory. They were those deceptive winds that, if you saw them from the comfort of the inside, looked as though they would be a refreshing balm for the glaring summer heat. But then, when you risk venturing out into them, you are assaulted by air that seems to be moving directly from within an active volcano crater to your unsuspecting skin.
The oppressive winds and the pallid sky just set the scene, though. The minutes of summer are ticking away for those who know that a return to school is at hand.
It’s hot and unpleasant outside, and even a dip in the pool has all the appeal of lounging in a bowl of soup. The days don’t have that bursting summertime excitement of simply getting out of classes back in May. Now, things feel like the season has taken a toll on us, though the only respite it will offer is the end of staying up and sleeping late and the return of keeping a tight schedule.
Seems not much of a reprieve.
As I have written about all these things that seem to fall just shy of the hoped-for mark, I have to admit that I am a bit ashamed.
Am I being one of those people? Am I being that person who cannot be satisfied? Nobody likes those people, so I most assuredly do not want to be like that.
What is it that I need to reconsider?
I am not going to go back on my sentiments about the color of the summer sky when the sun is beating down. It’s just not like its usual lovely blue.
But I will say this: when the open spaces in it are no longer visible and the once-towering white billows of clouds merge to become dark and heavy, a new beautiful color is produced.
No longer am I languishing under blanched expanses but getting to see the dark green of mid-July leaves against a deep shade that mixes slate and lapis. And it is across this rich new hue that I get to watch bright veins of pink-white lightning travel, tracing rivers of electricity as if to reveal a once-invisible map.
Come to think of it, when we are at the point of an impending storm, even the winds improve. Their oven-like atmosphere very briefly melts away. You can finally breathe deeply and close your eyes while the coolness caresses your face and bends the tree branches in a rustling symphony.
That magical moment when the atmosphere is completely and utterly changed, right before the cloudburst, is one of my absolute favorite times of all.
Maybe even the last days of summer break aren’t so bad either.
While I wouldn’t be so bold as to say that my daughter or other children like her are necessarily excited about the return to the daily grind, it does have its perks. There are friends you may not have seen since last leaving those halls. There is always the prospect of making new ones to add to those from years before.
And I suppose the possibility of learning something new isn’t inherently terrible, if it isn’t paired with too much homework.
Hopefully, I have salvaged things here.
I did begin a bit grumbly, I admit it. That wasn’t my intention, I promise. We’ll chalk that up to the heat.
But regardless of where the whining came from, I did my best to rectify my words here. Not every rosebush is in bloom all the time. Sometimes it’s just a bunch of thorns, and it’s all right to acknowledge as much, I suppose.
I just need to keep in mind that while not being keen on pricking my finger is practical, it is just as reasonable—and certainly more constructive—to take firmly into account that those thorns can, and will, bloom.
Prose and Possibilities 