It is almost summer here.
On this side of the world, the summer months; March, April and May bake the earth with its blazing sunshine. I have come to half-dread this particular time of the year. A steady hot sun with a hot stifling breeze could ruin the mood of my day trips (allergies!) nevertheless there’s my trusty fan and umbrella to ward it off. However, this season means grasses turn from yellow to brown, leaves hang dryly from bare branches, while scattered summer flowers bask under the sun. There’s a sense of abandonment on its neglected beauty which I have come to love. I even made a corner in tumblr for a collection of those images.
In my reading of von Arnim’s The Enchanted April, it stirred a few chords within me. Its invisible subtle cadences nudge me to keep my mind open still for little pleasures and philosophical clarity on my own musings. The slow pace of the novel may have helped in letting my thoughts drift in languidness (not that it takes much for me to drift into the imagination).
But von Arnim’s portrayal of the woes of a woman spoke a lot to me. In that unknowingly, we could have wrapped up ourselves in a shell or a semblance of a front or an illusion of emotion that is bearable to wear as a form of escape, to deal with the day to day that has become dreary. And sometimes it is quite justifiable to just let it all go and be spontaneous for once, twice, lots of times. This summer I might do that. It is cliche but there are times we must stop and really smell the roses.
The days were cooler these past months and, though it is on my favor, I somewhat look forward too to warm my cold muscles and dry skin. Summer days have much more rhythm in the body than the wet season. Even if covered up in a shawl against the heat wave, I could day dream of short dresses, bare shoulders, accessories (I stopped wearing anything on my arms because it dug on my wrists) and always, always the messy hair.
Outside, on my short walks, I shall seek out the yellow blooms of that specific tree that sheds leaves every March, the rose hued late afternoon skies, photograph more climbing yellow bells, and read a book while a summer thunderstorm rages on.