Love Letter - Summer

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Summer is such a potent time. In South Africa, summer meant the end of the school year and the beginning of Christmas. In America, summer still means skip school—Yeah, the kids! shout. Urgh sigh their parents. But summer also seems to signify a freedom and permission that’s hard to fully explain or encapsulate without bludgeoning your spirits through North America’s hardscrabble bitter winters.

In this milieu, summer represents so much more than a season—it is a state of mind and space held in the collective imagination. It is also a feeling—an abundance of something fleeting, bliss maybe, a stickiness in the humidity and in the thick embrace of block parties and cookouts.

Summer is the loudest time nature and our bodies come alive. The verdant green isn’t solely trapped in the trees. It is in our bodies and their hungers—insatiable lusts for wild vitalities, for chasing fireflies and tasting life, swallowing its full rush.

Summer is also when things spoil. The heat in the blood runs thick and just as quickly as it ripens a peach it will turn that velvet skin into pus and something sickening with rot.

Summers die. Every year. Even on the equator. They lose themselves in the monsoon. But they always return, completely. Make you forget you ever knew cold. Big creative bursts are also a summer. Seasonal. And ripe. On the cusp of something big that’s most alive right before the rot, right before externalities (but don’t always) corrupt the creative core that births the meaty flesh of fruit.

Like a voluptuous peach, the creative burst is itself the finished product. No matter how divine your grandma's peach cobbler pie is (send me some. Not the recipe, honey. I’ll take the whole damn pie!), it will never compare to the bare naked summer fruit. With sun baked skin. And the sweetness of sin. It’s own end in your mouth and on your tongue—soft flesh yielding to fatten your flesh.

Summer is sweet. It feels good to create. To be in the thick of our creative bounty. We expect endless summers. Something even nature, prolific as she is, does not promise or create. Instead, nature sows herself deep in the thrust of a full summer. She takes everything somersaulting in with the season—ripe peaches, potent rot, tornadoes, hurricanes and shrunken night time—and turns into a riot. The wildest sensory attack unloading its fullest industry.

What will you do with your rich and fleeting summer?

Makhene