Emily Articulated: Summers

By Emily Erickson
Reader Columnist

I remember summers as sticky things — sweaty strands of hair matted to my cheek as I lay on the floor beneath the air conditioner; sticky fingers from dribbles of Bomb-Pop juice or watermelon juice or lemonade, wiped clean on blades of grass; damp towels, crusted in sand, clinging to the river water still beaded on my skin. 

I remember summers as expansive — long, open days filled with room to roam, with pedal bikes piled in heaps at the park like question marks or invitations. “Who’s here?” and, “What might we do, together?” Filling a whole day felt like filling a month: soccer practice and lakeshore rope swings, knocks on friends’ doors and double-decker cheese sandwiches, all before the heat drove us inside and Days of Our Lives aired on TV.

I remember reading for hours, the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds and the leaves of the maple tree outside my window. A sore neck would pull me out of the world I’d been lost in. I’d shut the book, blink back my surroundings — desk, lamp, bed, closet — objects reappearing like talismans of reality. None as magical as I wished they’d be.

I remember summer days fading into nights, with orange-skied sunsets and the silks of the corn we were shucking blowing on the evening breeze. Smells of charcoal and grill smoke wafted through the yard, mixing with citronella like the official scent of the season. Even still, mosquitoes were undeterred, swarming under porch lights and piling their bites on our legs like little conquerors. We’d grow our nails just long enough to mark each bump with an “X” and pretend that helped quell the itch.

Summers eventually shifted to wilder things, with driver’s licenses turning to Ford Focuses and old Saturn sedans stuffed with teenagers running, together, from boredom. MapQuest pages were crumpled in door-side pockets with directions to the next town over — its own population of teenagers packed in cars like ours. We’d swap drama like reality TV contestants, dissecting each other’s words like scripture — meaning made between the lines, starring characters we weren’t sure were even real.

As I continued to grow, my summers kept growing with me. Sticky Bomb-Pop fingers gave way to crusted ketchup globs and beer splashes from the rush of restaurant double shifts. College credits were crammed between after-work drinks and Saturday morning farmers’ markets. Late nights with live music on patios made us feel like the adults we play-acted we already were.

Today, summer still holds magic and promise. But it feels packed full — events pouring like a firehose into a dry mouth (a gift, and also more overwhelming than it felt a decade ago). I schedule breathing room into my calendar like a wedge between color-coded busyness. And sometimes, I forget what it feels like to have brain space — to remember that I’m still, partly, the kid who needs to lie beneath the air conditioner, letting her thoughts blow freely until one of them feels solid enough to keep.

I forget what winter often reminds me: that even the best things are sweeter when I have space to reflect on them.

I love the rush of summer — festivals and lake days, long dinners with friends after full days of work. I love an event list with so many options that I can’t help but feel full just looking at them. And I also need a reminder that choosing none of them and spending time with myself is OK, too.

Maybe the secret to summer balance isn’t about reclaiming the expansive summers of old, but about making space for presence amid the craze. Summer can be for noticing the light shift through the trees just as much as chasing cover bands and headliners, or for enjoying the quiet of an early morning before the world wakes up and the day begins. Sometimes, I can try to let a breeze brush past without immediately turning it into a task — and then charge into the joyful fray, headfirst and willing. 

Summer is still here, even when it feels like it’s racing by. And I’m still here, too, learning how to be with it exactly as I am, in the both/and — the doing and the stillness — that makes the season so sweet.

Emily Erickson is a writer and business owner with an affinity for black coffee and playing in the mountains. Connect with her online at www.bigbluehat.studio.