2 Samuel 22:34
He makes my feet like the feet of a deer
and sets me securely on the[heights...
I had forgotten how to love summer. As a child, I remember the hum of a homemade ice cream maker, and the pink watermelon smiling at me as I laid face up on the moss next to the creek next to me. Thoughts of chiggers, mortgages, or other annoying pests had not yet made their way into my thought processes: not much beyond the imaginary did in those days. I would recline on the mossy blanket like Cleopatra and think about the fairies I knew must be living underneath my head. Before I learned about Oberon and Titania and the ancient traditions of midsummer, I believed in the magic of glowing lights in the field, the secrets beneath a lilypad, and the stain of blackberries on my hands: bitter, red, and ripe.
Summers in the mountains of North Carolina are unlike those of the deeper South. In Georgia (where I now reside) summer is thick. The air is heavy, gardenias take the place of lady slippers, and the flatness of the land can lead to twisters that the mountains rarely see. I have mourned the loss of the mountain summer for a few years now. I had fallen out of love with the season--but not the man whom I had left the mountains for in the first place. Thus, I replaced it with a new affinity for fall: after all, what is not to love about the kaleidoscope of color or the taste of cinnamon on a crisp October night? If I could not have a mountain summer, I reasoned, then I would decide I did not need summer at all. I sometimes hid in the cool grasp of the air-conditioning, certain I would hate the oppressive hot air if I even began to explore outside.
Then, last summer, I gave myself some goals: I wanted to travel to new places, learn one new skill, and explore outside as much as possible. I did this so I would not "waste" my three months "off" as a teacher creating more lesson plans than I needed or vacuuming for the third time in one week. I have a tendency to do both. Also, I had recently been reminded that life is fleeting and every day that we awake healthy and whole and happy is a gift not meant to be wasted.
I learned to paddleboard, kayak (an amateur, but it counts), and make pie crust from scratch. I ventured even further south to the waves of the Atlantic with friends, traveled to the blue rolling hills of Kentucky with my generous husband, and hiked a small part of the Appalachian Trail in Georgia. I picked blackberries on the summer solstice and wore the badges of scrapes and stained hands proud as a pagan. I slid down rock slides, took a watercolor nature class at the library, and went to my first "hot" yoga experience. I dug up potatoes, planted flowers and watched them grow, and caught lightning bugs with my nephew. I camped and fished for trout--fishing, by the way, gives you time to think and reflect. As their bellies flipped white over the ripples in the stream, I understood something sacred--creation lives in nature--and nature is God's creation. Living in affinity with it once again and accepting my surroundings gave me peace. He gave me the feet of a deer...and He sets me securely on the heights. I plan to use those deer feet this summer the same as I did last summer: to climb, run, and meander through hills and valleys. I am rediscovering the magic of summer time--and connecting with my Creator through his most raw gift to humans.
