27. Goals

I haven't even been out of school for a week, and it's already going by too fast. But, in reality I've got the whole summer left to accomplish whatever I want to. It's pretty liberating, really -- two months of unadulterated freedom, with no homework and very few rules and altogether way too much free time. So, if I want to have a hope of actually accomplishing something this summer, I'm gonna have to start setting goals.

Each summer as part of the summer skating program, we are asked to set goals concerning what we want to accomplish over the next few months. They can be pretty much anything, from landing a jump, to learning a new spin, to improving body awareness and musicality. They could even be something as simple as, "pay attention better in class". We meet once every few weeks to discuss how much progress we've made so far, et cetera, et cetera, and it's all very encouraging, and helpful, and perfectly boring.

But the first few weeks of summer are less organized. There's no pompous coach telling you exactly what type of goals you need to set, or asking you in that condescending voice to read them aloud to the group. No, in the first fortnight of summer, the whole world is open, and you can accomplish whatever you put your mind to.

It's just up to you to do it....

25. Flavored Water

As summer approaches, the herb garden is overflowing with delicious flora, and the kitchen counter is overburdened with fresh berries and melons and peaches. I decided, rather on a whim, to cut up some strawberries fresh from the garden and put them in a glass of water. The results were delicious; the water was infused with the subtle acid-sweet sensation of the berries. Over the proceeding days, I tried a few other combinations, all to overwhelming success. A few were rather unusual (rosemary and raspberry, cucumber and blueberry), while some were more familiar (mint and strawberry). If you have never tried making flavored water before, I would definitely recommend it -- the results are almost guaranteed to be delicious.

22. Sunscreen

Am I the only one who loves the smell of sunscreen?

Anyone? Anyone?

 Bueller?

I think that sometimes smells create more poignant memories than your other senses. I can smell something and associate it with an event that happened 12, maybe 14 years ago. I remember the most random things; the sweaty stench of the gym where I did gymnastics when I was six, and the chemical smell of the cleaner used at the school I went to when I was ten. Now whenever catch a scent, it brings back memories, good and bad.

For me, the memories associated with sunscreen are almost exclusively positive. The pungent, coconutty aroma reminds me of sweltering road trips and sandy beaches; of building forts in the woods that surrounded our house; of our hands stained crimson from picking pound upon pound of dusty raspberries to make into jam; of the endless, pleasantly uneventful days.

In short, sunscreen reminds me of everything that makes summer so great.

17. Sunshine

Sorry I have been MIA for the past little while -- I had several weeks of grueling exams, and was completely drained afterwards. But I'm back, and will be posting more regularly again, now. School is almost done for the year, and I'm looking forward to the pleasantly long, uneventful days of summer.
In the month and a half that I have been gone, the weather has shifted schizophrenically between a gloomy overcast and a cloudless sunshine. It's impossible to dress for weather like that; you either wear shorts and freeze in the still-frigid mornings, or wear pants and boil in the pounding afternoon heat. But the sun seems to finally be here to stay. And there's nothing like nine months of dreary cloudiness to make you want to make the most of those three months of summer.

14. Summer

We've just had the first week of good weather of the year. Well, good weather is all relative; it was still a pretty frigid week, averaging around 60 Fahrenheit. But it's enough to incite a little restlessness in even the most dedicated students. And this weekend, the temperatures have risen to almost 70 degrees. So I figured that, in homage to the coming summer, I would post something a little different.

Below is an essay that I wrote for English class. It is based (albeit loosely) on Virginia Woolf's Talland House, wherein she recounts memories of summers spent at a vacation house on the English coast.

The objective of the prompt was to employ the descriptive language and lengthy sentences used so often by Woolf. I apologize if the essay seems a little bit stilted or choppy -- I never got around to editing it -- but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

There’s a little town a few hours east of here that lies just on the Canadian side of the border. It’s not much in the way of a town, really; just a random smattering of imposing lakeside hotels jumbled with ramshackle houses and convenience stores. Right next to the main hotel was the Starlight Marina (much less romantic than it sounds) with the typical Ski-Doo’s and speed boats and kayaks. Osoyoos is pretty much like every other small lakeside town.  But especially when I was younger, it seemed an almost mystical place. The thing that struck me most when I returned to a few years ago was that, even when it seemed that everything and everyone had changed, this island of normalcy remained unchanged. Five years after I visited it initially, there was the same hotel that we always went to, same delicious restaurant, even the same ice cream stand. It always seemed almost anticlimactic once we got there, but the drives to Osoyoos were practically unbearable. My sister, older cousin, and I would always go there after having spent two weeks visiting with our grandparents’ farm in the interior of British Columbia. Our parents would come for the last few days on the farm, which was a rather tense experience. Even back then, there was always a barely perceptible feeling of animosity, a buzz of cold electricity that injected itself into every sentence and movement. It wasn’t that there was one event that triggered this anxiety, so much as a series of small events that made those few days a little choppy. We would pile into the car under the stifling Okanogan sun, finally free from all the family drama. The car ride seemed endless (six hours can feel like an eternity, especially when you’re nine years old). But we amused ourselves for the arduous journey, knowing that once we made it through, Osoyoos would be waiting for us, patiently as always.

As soon as we made it to the hotel, we would leap out of the car, impatient to get to the beach as soon as possible. Taking our bags out of the car and into the lobby seemed a Sisyphean task with the wonderful sandy beach barely a hundred meters away. We waited impatiently, shuffling from one foot to the other, unable to stand still when our goal was within reachable distance.

And finally, freedom. The second our parents gave the most miniscule nod, we took it as the go-ahead and raced onto the beach- Through the dimly-lit lobby, down the slippery tiled stairs, along the hallway wafting with chlorine from the pool, and onto the gray paved balcony. We could finally see the beach in its full glory- everything from the chipped bright orange paint on the metal hand rails to the dusty sand that went on forever on either side of us. We leaped down the short set of stairs and onto the warm sand. You could feel the sun-soaked grains covering your feet, each individual granule seeming to soak the stress away. We would tentatively dip our feet in the water, slowly wading up to our ankles, then our calves. Maybe our knees if we were feeling brave. None of us really liked getting into the water, and we would dare the bravest to dunk their head under the bracing water first. Being the youngest by two years, I was almost never first. I would stand alone at the shallowest bit of water, the ground coated with that same fine sand that now glopped in between your toes like cafeteria pudding. I would get up the nerve to go a little deeper in tortuously slow increments, wincing as the cold water lapped at my ankles. My sister always believed that the best way to get in was to dive all at once, and she tried to convert me by splashing me with pails full of sandy water and slimy strings of kelp. But once everyone was finally in the water, we would stay as long as possible.  We would splash around until our bodies were numb with cold, our skin pocked with goose-bumps. We stayed out until the sun got hazy on the horizon, stretching out time until our parents finally called us in for dinner.

 

 

12. Stars

I have always been intrigued by science. I love piecing together observations and facts to figure out how the world works. That isn't to say that I'm particularly good at science -- it's one of my weaker subjects -- but that doesn't stop me from loving it.

After that brief respite of sunshine, the sky is back to its typical, angry grey. Looking at the ominous clouds looming above makes me yearn even more for the clear nights of summer, when the sky is wiped clean of cloudy blemishes, and only a blue-black canvas, pricked with starlight, remains.

Over the summer, my family took a trip to Arizona, and I got the opportunity to go on a rafting trip down the Grand Canyon. We spent seven days at the mercy of the water, being tossed through rapids turned turbulent and rust-colored by the recent storms. On the calmer sections of river, a gauzy film of fog hung like a phantom above the river. We traveled slowly through the canyon, stopping to eat or take a side-hike along the way. The only sign of civilization was the occasional motor raft passing by. We would stop our journey by around 4:00, and then explore and make dinner before the fading light of summer's end made any activity all but impossible.

But when the darkness fell was when you finally took notice of the sky. Without any light pollution from surrounding cities, night after night, the canyon is enveloped in velvety darkness. Stars normally invisible stood clearly against the sky. On clear nights, we would line up a row of sleeping bags and fall asleep gazing at the stars. It's there that I learned about a whole host of new constellations, with each star playing a part in the story of the night sky.

There is nothing more humbling than realizing that, in the context of the universe, our world is little more than a speck of dust, making up less than a dot of light in the sky. Because beyond those stars, there are more stars, and beyond are more stars, and beyond and beyond, into forever.

On the one hand, it is terrifying to be so small and insignificant in the scheme of the universe. But on the other hand, it is incredibly gratifying to be a small part in it all, even if nothing more than a blip on the radar of time and space.

Looking at the stars, one cannot help but feel incredibly lucky.