August resolution.

Life is so constructed that an event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation.
-Charlotte Bronte

I knew this would happen. I knew it. I start off every summer with big plans and then I blink a few times and it’s August. Seriously, where does summer go? I try to take it in small sips and end up finishing in a couple gulps. Aren’t the days supposed to be longer?

This summer was the first summer of my life where my time was completely my own. When I was a kid, my summers had beautiful structure to them. A few different county day camps, a week or so at each of my grandma’s houses in Philly and New Orleans, a session or two at sleepaway camp and then two glorious weeks at the beach in South Carolina.

But this was first summer where, for the most part, I had all day just to be at my house. Just do… whatever. I didn’t exactly mean for it to be this way. I thought I’d be working at a bakery or a flower shop or heck, even a summer camp, but none of those avenues panned out and I was stuck with a very open summer schedule.

So I planned. I planned to make plans. Weeks filled with writing and art and house projects. Weekends filled with day trips and cookouts and the Great Outdoors. And some of that has happened. We had a great cookout with friends and even a couple neighbors last weekend. We’ve had visits from family, a few day trips to Newport and Portland, ME, spent some time at the beach, went canoeing and I’m even taking a baking class, Andreas’ present to me for my birthday. (I’ll tell you guys more about it later, I’ve only had one class so far. But it was awesome.)

But I had planned even more. I had planned lots more reading and lots more writing. I had visions of spending many an afternoon at the park with a folding chair and a book. Dreams of mornings spent writing at a local cafe and making friends with all the regulars.  I haven’t done any of that. My days get crowded with errands leftover from the weekend, trips to the gym and the bank, cleaning and cooking. It seems like the minute I get through my to-do list I hear Andreas’ footsteps on the deck stairs.

In the beginning of the summer I beat myself up about it. I beat myself up for not trying even harder to get another job for the summer (despite applying to several dozen). I beat myself up for not doing more. For not being more creative. For not having much money in my bank account. For not being more grateful. For, for, for… for everything.

And now I’m feeling done with the summer-long self-pummeling session. Done with all the expectations, held by others, held by myself. Because I realized that I might not get this opportunity again for a very long time. This beautiful gift of time. So if I feel like reading on the deck for an hour instead of blogging, that’s what I’m going to do. And if I feel like blogging instead of planning dinner, blog I will. I won’t neglect those things I must do, but I will accept what it is I feel like doing and deem that as productive. And if I’m filling up my free days with chores so that our weekends are free for living, well, that’s good too.

Yesterday for the first time, I let my to-do list be all chores (somehow chores have become a luxury) and I relished the opportunity to do them in the middle of a weekday, instead of squished uncomfortably into our precious weekend hours. When I got things done, I was proud. When I didn’t, I told myself there would be time later. And then I let myself be done with it.

And that felt good.