Thursday, August 11, 2011

It doesn't seem as if the summer will really go away...

by Ruchi Koval

"It doesn't seem as if the summer will really go away
You close your eyes and marvel,
Oh, what a lovely day..."
-Dina Storch

When I was younger, it seemed as though the next season would never come. In summer, winter seemed an eternity away. In winter, I could hardly conceptualize summer vacation.
As I got older I started feeling like the repetitious seasons were tiresome. I wondered, how do older people not get bored of the same-old, same-old cycle each year? Is it just me, since I am an adventurous sort? Or does anyone else feel this way?
Summer again... more wet bathing suits...
Winter again... more colds and soggy feet...
Fall again... time to buy the school supplies...
Spring again... mud, mud, mud...
Etc.
That's kind of sad.
I don't want to approach my life with a boring attitude of repetitiousness.
But now that I'm even a bit older (when I went in to have my last baby I was diagnosed with "advanced maternal age") I look at it differently. I look at the anticipation and the sameness of the seasons, the rituals, and even the traditions and holidays, in a whole new light.
I think it's the very expected-ness that is a comfort, like a pair of old comfy shoes. It's like every time you cut through that shortcut, you make the trail clearer and easier to traverse. You make that path more strongly established.
Every time I hang out those soggy bathing suits, I establish my subconscious impression of "summer" that much more strongly. The smells, the feel, the look... it's all there.
Rosh Hashanah, you're on the horizon. The evenings are feeling just a touch cooler, the sunsets seem to whispering "fall." The school supplies are on sale.
I welcome you, Rosh Hashanah, like an old friend who comes to visit once a year. The smell of honey, the feel of the sweater I throw on Rosh Hashanah night, the sound of the blessings we wish each other after services, are all signs of your visit. I missed you, Rosh Hashanah.
Welcome home, friend.