From the hammock, I stare up at the evening sky through the branches of the tree above.
In the soft light of our room, I light my newest candle and climb into bed to read.
I read the title story from a collection of short stories. First to myself, then later on to Joey. I think about it all week and decide I love it wholeheartedly.
We eat ice cream while children hula hoop and the “quirky crooner-sounds of yesteryear” play in the background.
After yoga, I walk to my car, up a quiet street with beautiful houses and legitimately hear someone playing the saxophone.
Right before bed, I play Joey a Gregory Alan Isakov song and then he plays me one by Amos Lee.
A couple of weeks ago, I found myself home alone for the night. I admired our garden — the snap peas and their lacy tendrils, beets peeking out of the dirt, pumpkin vines sprawling across the ground — and listened to City and Colour while kneading pizza dough. I ate dinner in the backyard and read Shakespeare in the hammock. I gave myself half an hour of yoga, doing the poses I wanted, at the pace I needed, and the freedom to grab a cookie from the freezer halfway through. I cut up a pint of deep red strawberries with the TV off and let the catharsis wash over me.
In the summer, I’m always overcome with this need to DO IT ALL, take advantage of every moment, fit as much as possible into every second. It’s exhilarating and fun but it can also be exhausting and rushed. This summer, I’m making sure to take my time and enjoy these slower quieter moments too. They are just as precious.