Slow down

When we lived in Alabama I remember sitting miserably at the edge of a soccer field one evening on the first really hot sticky day of the season, probably in late April. Sitting next to me, with her head thrown back and eyes closed, was my boss, who had a son on the team practicing in front of us. I looked at her incredulously as she said, "I just love it when the hot weather comes, the air is so soft and warm on my skin. I could drink it in." I decided then and there to try and appreciate the heat. In Alabama there was a warm liquid kind of feeling, the air so thick with humidity that I imagined myself with gills. I could see how you might feel like you were drinking it in.

In Oregon we don't have that kind of languorous heat; here it strikes mid-morning with a smack, leaving your face red and burning. To appreciate it you have to remember that in a couple of months the rain will set in and so you should enjoy the sun while you have it. Part of this enjoyment is just the enforced slowing-down that a hot day requires. Walk, don't run. Sip, don't gulp. Don't play, just watch. Slow down.




I want to be the wiry brown dog, but not because he gets the treat. He just has the best toes. And slo-mo: I wish I knew how to do this.