At first, the boys go running down the street after the balloons yelling, trying to catch them and get them back, refusing to let them go. The farther the balloons are drifting ahead, bobbing off the sidewalk and starting to lift higher, the harder and faster the boys run to try and catch up.
After a while, they realize that they can't catch them and they stop running but they still keep looking up, trying to follow them for as long as they can.
"Can you still see them Sarah? I can, I can ... they are way up there by the top of the trees!!"
And this continues for a while until they are even higher now, little red dots against an open sky.
I keep blinking and blinking, and every now and then I can catch a glimpse, but I know they are gone. The distance has grown so far between us and the balloons that they are now nowhere to be seen.
****************
I have a Love/Hate relationship with September.
This isn't new. I've been this way as long as I can remember. I am holding onto Summer like a red balloon and it is wrapped so tightly around my wrist, there are indentation marks. The balloon is pulling and pulling at me that it's time to go and I am fighting against its release like a child holding onto her favorite toy.
I want it back.
I want the sunshine and vitamin D.
The road trips with the top down.
The sand between my toes and the sound of the water as it hits the shore.
Long solitary walks on the beach hypnotized by my headphones.
The steady breeze from the open screens.
Tank tops and tan lines.
Cottage weekends and dock-tails, filled with campfires and conversation.
Sailboats and sunglasses, swimming pools and sprinklers.
Seasonal vegetables and visits to the Farmers market on a Saturday morning.
Winery tours and Muskoka chairs.
BBQ's and beer can chicken.
Outdoor concerts, lighters in the sky, long weekends and firework displays.
I want to hit the rewind button and go back to June and play this video again.
Don't get me wrong - I do love the Seasons and what they represent.
I just think some should be shorter than others.
I want about two or three weeks of the Fall, preferably on a trip to the Muskokas by a lake. Where all the leaves are at their finest colors of deep, cherry reds and golds. Or at a tailgate party in Buffalo, watching the lunatic Bills fans in action, grilling burgers with a cold one, throwing the ball around. Or making stew on a Sunday afternoon flipping between Baseball and Football in conflicting timeslots on television, while one season ends and another begins. Or enjoying the peaceful feeling the first time the fireplace kicks on and I can hear the simple crackle it makes in the background as it warms the room. These are the days of long runs in the cooler air, long sleeves and leggings, past all the dog walkers in their heavier jackets and boots.
And then I'd like about a week of the pretty, snowy days, preferably December 24th. The house decorated for Christmas. The presents under the tree. The mini lights twinkling away with the pot lights dimmed low. The Winter days that make you proud to be Canadian where the temperature hovers around -1C and the wind isn't blowing sideways. Where the kids make snowmen and their faces are flushed from the cold when they come inside, bringing 3 inches of snow in with them. Baileys and hot chocolate, heated seats and hockey sticks. The first snowfall sitting in the hot tub with a glass of wine in hand. The season where the days are short and the runs are too. Where, as I battle the elements of wind and snow running around my neighborhood and by the lake, I can see my breath and smell the smoke from the wood burning fireplaces, smiling, as my lungs take in the crispness of the air and I feel completely alive.
I'm not gonna lie. I could pretty much do without the February blues. Just get me right out of here on the next plane to the closest possible place to the equator. The dark, miserable days in between New Year's and Spring where the wind takes your breath away and the house can't stay warm. When the Superbowl is over and days where it's too cold to run. (and I will run until it's -20C so this says a lot). I struggle with February as much as September. I've had enough. I cross the days off the calendar one by one and start the countdown to March. By this point, I'm convinced I truly do have Seasonal Anxiety Disorder and no amount of Vitamin D seems to correct this. I start talking about buying one of those light therapy things, although I never do, and I complain that another year has gone by and we really should've gone away and that it's everyone else's fault I'm in this state, because we didn't go somewhere like I told them would make me feel better. And then I finish it off stating that I'm going next year, even if I'm going on my own. Repeat. Every. February.
And then one day Spring finally breaks. I can see the snow and ice melting and hear it trickle into the storm drains in the streets. The sun shines a little brighter and more people start to dot the sidewalks. Coats are replaced with sweaters and boots becomes shoes. There is a feeling in the air that is lighter and full of hope and promise as everything starts to thaw. It is just a question of time before the long days of Summer and heat waves begin.
It's in those days, once the misery of February is over after the long, dark days of Winter, that I truly appreciate how stunning the seasons are and how very fortunate we are to experience all of them in their extremes. That my fantasy of pouring drinks in a straw hut on the beach, where the suns shines 365 days of the year, would short change the beauty of the seasons in their entirety and I should be so grateful for every raindrop and snowflake.
The seasons remind us of the forces of nature. They remind us that the only thing constant we can count on is change. Our lives bring us the equivalent of the harshest Winters, followed by the inevitability of Spring.
"Without the rain, there will be no rainbows. Without the Winter, there would be no Spring".
But the seasons always change.
The snow always melts and the flowers bloom.
****************
Today, I watch the leaves start to fall one by one outside my window. The daylight is slipping away a little quicker now and it's almost time to strip the gardens for the Winter. The wind is swirling, the rain is relentless and the power cuts out. Even the squirrels are running around picking up what's left of the scraps before they hibernate.
And I know it's gone.
I bring the boots and sweaters upstairs from storage and pack up the flip flops and sundresses.
And even though I'm not finished with it yet, I symbolically untie the string around my wrist and release the balloon. I stand by the window and watch it drift away, higher and higher off into the distance, desperately wanting to chase after it and bring it back for one more day.
But I don't.
I let it go.
And then I say goodbye, trusting that there will be another Summer ahead.
I have a Love/Hate relationship with September.
This isn't new. I've been this way as long as I can remember. I am holding onto Summer like a red balloon and it is wrapped so tightly around my wrist, there are indentation marks. The balloon is pulling and pulling at me that it's time to go and I am fighting against its release like a child holding onto her favorite toy.
I want it back.
I want the sunshine and vitamin D.
The road trips with the top down.
The sand between my toes and the sound of the water as it hits the shore.
Long solitary walks on the beach hypnotized by my headphones.
The steady breeze from the open screens.
Tank tops and tan lines.
Cottage weekends and dock-tails, filled with campfires and conversation.
Sailboats and sunglasses, swimming pools and sprinklers.
Seasonal vegetables and visits to the Farmers market on a Saturday morning.
Winery tours and Muskoka chairs.
BBQ's and beer can chicken.
Outdoor concerts, lighters in the sky, long weekends and firework displays.
I want to hit the rewind button and go back to June and play this video again.
Don't get me wrong - I do love the Seasons and what they represent.
I just think some should be shorter than others.
I want about two or three weeks of the Fall, preferably on a trip to the Muskokas by a lake. Where all the leaves are at their finest colors of deep, cherry reds and golds. Or at a tailgate party in Buffalo, watching the lunatic Bills fans in action, grilling burgers with a cold one, throwing the ball around. Or making stew on a Sunday afternoon flipping between Baseball and Football in conflicting timeslots on television, while one season ends and another begins. Or enjoying the peaceful feeling the first time the fireplace kicks on and I can hear the simple crackle it makes in the background as it warms the room. These are the days of long runs in the cooler air, long sleeves and leggings, past all the dog walkers in their heavier jackets and boots.
And then I'd like about a week of the pretty, snowy days, preferably December 24th. The house decorated for Christmas. The presents under the tree. The mini lights twinkling away with the pot lights dimmed low. The Winter days that make you proud to be Canadian where the temperature hovers around -1C and the wind isn't blowing sideways. Where the kids make snowmen and their faces are flushed from the cold when they come inside, bringing 3 inches of snow in with them. Baileys and hot chocolate, heated seats and hockey sticks. The first snowfall sitting in the hot tub with a glass of wine in hand. The season where the days are short and the runs are too. Where, as I battle the elements of wind and snow running around my neighborhood and by the lake, I can see my breath and smell the smoke from the wood burning fireplaces, smiling, as my lungs take in the crispness of the air and I feel completely alive.
I'm not gonna lie. I could pretty much do without the February blues. Just get me right out of here on the next plane to the closest possible place to the equator. The dark, miserable days in between New Year's and Spring where the wind takes your breath away and the house can't stay warm. When the Superbowl is over and days where it's too cold to run. (and I will run until it's -20C so this says a lot). I struggle with February as much as September. I've had enough. I cross the days off the calendar one by one and start the countdown to March. By this point, I'm convinced I truly do have Seasonal Anxiety Disorder and no amount of Vitamin D seems to correct this. I start talking about buying one of those light therapy things, although I never do, and I complain that another year has gone by and we really should've gone away and that it's everyone else's fault I'm in this state, because we didn't go somewhere like I told them would make me feel better. And then I finish it off stating that I'm going next year, even if I'm going on my own. Repeat. Every. February.
And then one day Spring finally breaks. I can see the snow and ice melting and hear it trickle into the storm drains in the streets. The sun shines a little brighter and more people start to dot the sidewalks. Coats are replaced with sweaters and boots becomes shoes. There is a feeling in the air that is lighter and full of hope and promise as everything starts to thaw. It is just a question of time before the long days of Summer and heat waves begin.
It's in those days, once the misery of February is over after the long, dark days of Winter, that I truly appreciate how stunning the seasons are and how very fortunate we are to experience all of them in their extremes. That my fantasy of pouring drinks in a straw hut on the beach, where the suns shines 365 days of the year, would short change the beauty of the seasons in their entirety and I should be so grateful for every raindrop and snowflake.
The seasons remind us of the forces of nature. They remind us that the only thing constant we can count on is change. Our lives bring us the equivalent of the harshest Winters, followed by the inevitability of Spring.
"Without the rain, there will be no rainbows. Without the Winter, there would be no Spring".
But the seasons always change.
The snow always melts and the flowers bloom.
****************
Today, I watch the leaves start to fall one by one outside my window. The daylight is slipping away a little quicker now and it's almost time to strip the gardens for the Winter. The wind is swirling, the rain is relentless and the power cuts out. Even the squirrels are running around picking up what's left of the scraps before they hibernate.
And I know it's gone.
I bring the boots and sweaters upstairs from storage and pack up the flip flops and sundresses.
And even though I'm not finished with it yet, I symbolically untie the string around my wrist and release the balloon. I stand by the window and watch it drift away, higher and higher off into the distance, desperately wanting to chase after it and bring it back for one more day.
But I don't.
I let it go.
And then I say goodbye, trusting that there will be another Summer ahead.
