I am a summer baby, born in a month when the heat transitions from soft caresses to urgent touches. Sunlight skips frantically across the surface of my skin until it runs out of track with nowhere to go but up. If I am still enough, I can nearly feel the sun's energy pulsing through my veins, emanating from my pores and cycling back up again, and again, and again, as if a direct power line connects me to that ring of fire illuminating the sky.
When I was younger, I loved my birthday if only for the fact that it was mine in it's entirety. There was no school, piano lesson, or athletic practice that could squirrel away the hours of that day from me. It was an annual ritual for my mother and I to welcome my born-day with a trip to our local book store. Then, and even still, libraries, bookstores and all of the other places that allowed for the housing of books, held a special wonder for me.
The quiet of a bookshop distinctly reminded me of the quiet of my own thoughts... with the added benefit of community. Both, however, contained the power of regeneration, inspiration and comfort. I found solace in the methodical turning of pages, and often preferred the company of fictional characters to that of anyone else. And though I never acquired a taste for the deep tenor of coffee, it's earthy tones brought me solace--reminded me of long runs through woodsy trails and the particular tint of my grandmother's face; Foot strike following foot strike, following ragged breath, following foot strike. Sinking deep into the silence of these spaces was damn near second nature. Like breathing, I slipped gently and easily into its embrace, unaware that I was even doing so.
More than a decade later, and I still feel similarly. I have remained selfish with whom I share my energy... particularly when celebrating the day on which I was born. The urgency of a high-hanging July sun, is reflected in my own sense of urgency when meeting a new lover, or greeting an old one. I still relish in watching the vestiges of forgotten sunlight sparkle and weave itself above, beneath and beside the golden tint of my skin. I am falling in love every single day with people in possession of bodies (myself included); learning to relish time spent in community. And though finding pleasure in the taste of coffee still manages to elude me, I continue to appreciate its scent, color, and associations with winding trails and melanated skin. I am still enamored with bookshops, libraries, and the dusty homes of unloved artists and literature.
I am endlessly thankful for warm silences, worn pages and the endless possibilities of a summer day spent in the arms of a lover.
Here's to more life, more books, and more moments spent basking in each others' light.