Summer is over. Officially.
The winding canals of Amsterdam; the deafening din and debris of China, the country that never sweeps; the syrupy laziness of small-town Virginia: all things of the past. Wisps of memories that ignite and flicker and sputter out like cheap Fourth-of-July sparklers.
A brief family vacation in Grand Haven, Michigan last week. Highlighted by warm beaches, a freshwater ocean (Lake Michigan, duh, but we're going for poetry here), kayaking on the Potawatomi Bayou, frozen yogurt with dozens of toppings, wonderful family and friends, and a newfound albeit begrudging tolerance and respect for mosquitoes.
Now it's back to work. Schools are back in session, as are pumpkin spice lattes at Starbucks. With each passing year, autumn creeps earlier and earlier into summer's territory like a bossy older sibling.
For me, every day the same: wake, run, kettle, tea, practice, breakfast, shower, work, lunch, practice, read/write, dinner, yoga, read, bed. A happy, uncomplicated routine. Simple. Quiet.
But routines are made to be disturbed. That is why, come this Saturday, I will be jumping out of a plane at 11,000 ft (3353 meters for you non-Imperialists). A final (maybe actually final, if you're into the whole cynicism thing) attempt to extend the summer. To paraphrase that well-worn opera-ism, in re summer: It's not over until Choo Choo jumps out of a plane.