The Delicious Taste of Summer

The morning was quiet, new, the edge of the heat burned off in the night. Sunday newspapers, sheathed in plastic, thudded to the table. The coffee brewed, I had delicious sacred time to walk through pages and words and thoughts and being.

A quiet meditation, followed by quiet and heartfelt communications. And then to the tennis courts to rally with a friend in the rising sun. Not quite hot, not quite cool, sweat in delicate drops on my bare skin.

Bare skin is one of the joys of summer. Shoulders, arms, parts of legs, bare feet especially. To feel the earth beneath you. An intimate connection between shoulder and sunlight. To be touched by the sun in that lasting way, skin turned golden, evidence of being in the world.

And then on to the farmers market, bustling with early morning activity. People with their canvas bags and eager eyes – zucchini, tomatoes, no eggs from our favorite organic farmers – “we had 7 yesterday, normally we had 40 in a day,” she held her baby, who looked exactly like her.

We ate breakfast on a patio, bought salmon for the barbecue that night and balls of buffalo mozzarella for the company coming later. We hugged the kids, smelled the familiar sweetness of their soft skin, then contemplated in yoga for an hour and a half.

It was a day like that. A day when we could do anything…and nothing. A day for tasting the supreme flavor of moments created in the now and on impulse. We went places, together, we’d wanted to step into but had been so busy on the trajectory of life we hadn’t had the time. Until yesterday.

There was even time for a rest and another meditation before the company arrived, two dear friends resplendent in smiles. Wine poured, appetizers of cheese and salami and artichokes and roasted peppers on the table with fresh rolls from the French bakery.

We laughed until the sun was hidden for the day, and the raccoons dared to congregate on the garbage cans. They looked right at me, my husband said. I retreated and they retreated, but one clambered up the drain pipe and sat on the roof, just staring at me.

Like the deer in the yard that Monday not long ago, who sat in the grass and stared back at us, not flinching, not moving, as if to stake claim that this moment and this earth was hers and there was nothing we could do about it.

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