There is so much I want to do.
I’m almost done with homeschooling, but I am nowhere near done with my children’s education—I want to focus on being the reader of books, the provider of creative space and art supplies, the encourager, the one who says, “Let’s look that up,” the listener and conversationalist, and—oh yes—the music teacher (or in Oldest’s case, the practice enforcer who promotes regular metronome use.) I’m looking forward to my new role of education supporter-and-supplementer, of focusing more on the stuff our family thinks is magical and fun, and of course I know I’m romanticizing it (I always do, that’s part of my M. O.) but that’s okay.
We could easily fill our days with all that.
But I also want to read this summer. Dickens and E. M. Forster, and Neruda, and Brontë, and Dillard, and Marilynne Robinson, and T. H. White, and Hemmingway, and Didion and so much more.
Also poetry and fairy tales and picture books, which in my mind are sort of all in the same category.
I want to read history voraciously, even though when it comes to reading history I am actually a slow careful nibbler, and an undisciplined and distractible one at that. But still.
I want to make music—I even have some music-making planned, which makes me feel like an honest-to-goodness musician again—and enjoy every second of it thoroughly.
I want to plant things, and run hundreds of miles, and have a thousand good conversations.
I want to take my kids to the pool and feel hot and lazy in the sun.
I want to take them to camp and to concerts and on picnics.
I want to play games and visit family.
I want to walk through the woods and get distracted by bugs and flowers and streams and rocks and whatever-is-rustling-in-the-underbrush and hunting-for-arrowheads and not ever worry about getting back in time for The Next Thing.
I want to write—poetry and blog posts and magical, tender stories that will touch and connect and maybe even make you ache a little.
I know I will have to be practical and responsible—at least sometimes—and I know I want way more than one summer can possibly provide.
The laundry will pile up as always, and rooms will have to be cleaned and organized and kids will get bored and I will want to say, How child? When you grow up you will see how unnecessary boredom is—how what’s lacking is time, not ways to fill it.
But some of this will happen.
I can’t wait.
Oh, summer.
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