The change in season began earlier, bringing in the light of summer to cascade over the new white blooms of spring. The buds on the trees had barely started to show before I was walking outside without any semblance of a coat on. I didn't crave the heat as much as I did the air, and the sun setting later and later each passing dusk proved the atmosphere to be changing quicker than any of us could have anticipated. These were some my favorite days, though, so I didn't mind, for the most part.
I craved a specific kind of day for each season, as if I had control over what the day would do. I had hoped for springtime to rid the sleeves of my arms. Flowers to bloom, not concerned of the allergies it brought the rest of us. Blues, yellows, and pinks began flooding porches and the staffs of mailboxes as soon as the temperature rose above 50 degrees. Eventually those breezy days turned into sweltering ones, where you couldn't take a deep breath without the humidity feeling like a brick sitting on your chest. Eventually the heat would break, whether by its own accord or by a rainstorm that found itself in the area long enough to shut down your concert for 20 minutes. And while hovering under the cover of the amphitheater, you could feel the quality of the air drop 15 degrees at the strike of a bolt of lighting. It brought in nights that remained in your memory accompanied by a chill in the air. The chill you anticipated from the first drop of an autumnal leaf to the final pastel bloom of the spring. I equate this feeling to the memory of sitting on a roof, 2 stories above the restaurant, 1 story above the bar, under bulbed lights strung across the nonexistent ceiling hovering over our heads. It was one of those nights that gave me the ability to feel free, to feel like I had the world I wanted in the palm of my hand. All because the wind changed.
Remnants of this moment still filter its way through my car on nights it's warm enough for me to drive with the windows cracked and the radio louder than any sound an old car could make. The right song can make you feel almost every emotion you've ever felt in the first three notes played. And even in the winter, I still find qualities of summer in the rhythm of a song. It's a good song until you get in the moment; your windows down, heat radiating from your shoulders, and sunshine not bright enough for sunglasses but too bright to not have protection from it. I'm sure in this instance, my lips would be chapped and my cheeks would be red like I was breaking a fever. And in the moment with the air blowing and the sun descending just below your line of vision, that good song becomes a great one. The prior times you've listened to this track inevitability don't exist anymore because this becomes the only circumstance this song could matter.
It's a lot for anything outside of myself to make me feel capable. To make me feel like nothing else matters. To make me feel like I'm in a teen RomCom, like I could sit in the back seat with my entire torso out the window and my hair blowing in the wind. But John Hughes didn't direct this moment, it came to me on its own, and it's in my hands to be the producer of what happens next. I think we've all got a part of us that looks for that in summer months. We want to do the things we have yet to do, or feel things we have yet to feel. May we be influenced to do whatever it is, by whatever may be the influencer, with no prior convictions keeping us from advancing.
I hoped time and time again to find myself in the breeze of the evening. For everything to make sense according to what someone else wrote. For someone to pilot this plane. I never thought I'd have it in me to desire my own fulfillment. Here's the playlist I made that inspired all of this: 'We Were Lost' by Cheyenne Nielsen on Spotify