How do you know which days will be the best ones of your life? The ones you will remember when you’re old and arthritic and can’t remember like you used to?
I wish I could live every day like it’s the best day of my life. Fortunately this week it’s been pretty easy.
The whole week was drenched in sunshine and rain. It started with time with my family, quiet back road drives and rock climbing. Work outs this week and kickboxing class filled me with ferocious joy. I felt strong. I felt like laughing at my aching muscles.
In the middle of the week, walking the dog before bed was deadly still, the sky was full of lightning and the sound of approaching thunder. The storm that hit was the worst we’ve seen since moving into our house seven years ago. We lost power and wandered the house like will-o’-the-wisps with headlamps, too keyed up for sleep, too excited by the chest rumbling cracks of thunder and purple light scorching the sky. It felt like the fourth of July, it felt like thunderstorms when I was a kid and I’d sit in the garage with my Dad so we could watch the show.
The end of the week was cooler and I drove to and from Ithaca in an on again, off again rain for Trapeze class. And it was wonderful. I felt like a kid again. I felt like I could play on the monkey bars.
To end it all was a quiet night on the lake with my nieces, paddling as the sun set and watching them light one sparkler after another and never be satisfied.
Through all of this I’ve been thinking to myself: I want to eat summer alive. I want to consume it, whole, and wriggling, like butterflies in your belly, like wings growing out of your back. I want to eat the whole world up to see if it fits inside.
I want to remember all the days as the best days of my life.