Growing up in Southern California, I have been spoiled by the beautiful summer sunshine, and though I’m not one to lie out in the sun and tan all day, I do manage to make seldom trips out to the beach, especially at night. There’s something breathtaking about the ocean in the darkness. Maybe it’s in the way the moon’s light glistens over the tide, or maybe it’s the roar of the waves as they crash and collide with the shore underneath a blanket of lustrous stars. Whichever the case, I am delivered a sense of majesty that which is much grander than me, as I bask in all its beauty.
I revel in the time before the sky turns from blue to black, in the moments that lead right up before the sunset. As my eyes are magnetized to the shores that are showered with a golden light, I come to realization that I am in transition, and not just to the night. As the summer nears its end, I find myself in transition of a personal season.
Western civilization, in particular, places an abundance of importance on seasons. For example, the season of summer is filled to the brim with commercials of sunscreen, beach balls, short shorts and flip flops, and we find ourselves already partaking in a celebration of lightheartedness, myself included. The Western way of commercialism has disciplined our minds to obey this kind of thinking and living. Before the summer ever began, this year, I possessed a set of well-intentioned plans I anticipated seeing come to fruition like the sand awaits water to cool off its scorching shores. Coincidentally, as I write on this subject, I am listening to Death Cab For Cutie’s song “Summer Skin” from their appropriately titled album, Plans. I cannot help but affirm Ben Gibbard’s lamentations,“On the night you left I came over and we peeled the freckles from our shoulders. Our brand new coats so flushed and pink and I knew your heart I couldn’t win ‘cause the seasons change was a conduit and we left our love in our summer skin.”
Failed attempts at love and the disintegration of my plans left me lost and shaken up with as many thoughts as grains of sand on those beautiful golden shores. Because when it came down to it, I had plans and they came undone. Yet, in spite of them falling apart, I was forced to envision a new tomorrow that conjured a new set of plans. What seemed like failure in one light was a cultivation of creativity in another. My experiences began to take shape in the form of stories and poems as I penned each one all throughout the summer, and now a book is being birthed out of this.
Elated as I am to see this new found creativity come about, and the countless possibilities that come with it, I am just as unnerved to where it will all go. Be that as it may, I am learning that with possibility comes uncertainty. You cannot have one without the other. When you step into one, you step into the other. Though I have a multitude of possibilities, I don’t know which one will unfold, and though I don’t know what awaits me tomorrow or in the days to come, I can be sure that something golden like those Southern California shores will unfurl as long as I remain committed to these endeavors. As I reflect on the former perspective, and the wisdom I acquired because of it, I put to words a season that closes its doors as I step through the doors of another:
The season of dreaming waits to throw and bury its pearls in the snow. Summer has worn out its celebration, and the fall is the time to prepare for a long winter. I believe it’s time for a change of season of heart. The trees will shed their leaves, and I will unwind the strongholds that keep me from healing. The still night air will bite my lips as I make ghosts with every breath, exhaling. It will get dark earlier and I will prepare my bed for long overdue sleep.
(An excerpt from my book, An Amalgamation Volume 1)