There Are Only So Many Summers

Something happens in August.

The light changes.

The evenings get a little shorter. Vacations wind down. Back-to-school displays appear in stores. Calendars begin filling up again.

And somehow, the summer that felt as though it had just begun is almost over.

Every year, we tell ourselves the same thing:

There will always be another summer.

And hopefully there will.

But there won't be an unlimited number of them.

That's something we rarely think about.

When we're young, summers seem endless. There will always be another trip to the lake. Another barbecue. Another afternoon at the pool. Another vacation. Another warm night sitting outside long after the sun has gone down.

Time feels abundant.

Then life gets busy.

Summers become squeezed between meetings, appointments, obligations and overflowing calendars. We start measuring them by trips taken, projects completed and weekends available.

And without realizing it, we begin treating our summers the same way we sometimes treat our lives:

As though there will always be more time later.

This Particular Summer Will Never Happen Again

There may be another summer.

But there will never be this summer again.

You will never again be exactly the age you are right now.

The people you love won't be exactly the ages they are now.

Your children will be older.

Your parents will be older.

Your friends' lives will change.

Your circumstances will change.

You will change.

Even the places that feel permanent won't remain exactly as they are.

And that's what makes an ordinary summer extraordinary.

Not because something spectacular happened.

But because this particular collection of people, places, circumstances and moments will never assemble itself in quite the same way again.

We Rarely Know When Something Is the Last Time

There will be a last swim of the summer.

A last dinner outside.

A last walk on the beach.

A last weekend away.

Most of the time, we won't realize it when it's happening.

We'll simply pack up the chairs.

Put away the towels.

Drive home.

And move on to whatever comes next.

Life is full of moments like this.

The last time your child asks to be carried.

The last family vacation when everyone still lives at home.

The last ordinary conversation with someone before life changes.

The last day at a job.

The last walk through a house you once called home.

The last time your entire family gathers around the same table in exactly the same configuration.

Almost none of these moments announce themselves.

There is no sign saying:

Pay attention. You're going to miss this someday.

And maybe that's why we miss so much while it's happening.

We Keep Waiting for the Important Part

It's easy to believe that the meaningful parts of life are the big ones.

The wedding.

The promotion.

The vacation.

The accomplishment.

The milestone.

But when people look back on their lives, it's often the ordinary things they miss most.

The dog asleep at their feet.

Someone laughing in the kitchen.

Coffee on the patio.

Driving with the windows down.

A familiar voice calling from another room.

Sitting around a table with nowhere particularly important to be.

We spend so much time chasing extraordinary moments that we can overlook the extraordinary nature of an ordinary life.

Maybe an unforgettable life isn't created only by doing bigger things.

Maybe it's also created by noticing the life that's already happening.

Before This Summer Ends

There are still summer evenings left.

There are still dinners to have.

People to call.

Walks to take.

Places to go.

Conversations to linger over.

And perhaps there's something you've been saying you'll do before summer is over.

Do it.

But don't turn this into another checklist.

That's not the point.

Instead, slow down long enough to notice where you are.

Look around the table.

Put the phone away.

Stay another twenty minutes.

Take the picture.

Make the call.

Watch the sunset instead of walking past it.

Say the thing you've been meaning to say.

And when you find yourself in one of those wonderfully ordinary moments, resist the urge to rush toward whatever comes next.

Just think:

This is one of them.

One of the summers.

One of the evenings.

One of the conversations.

One of the moments that, years from now, you might give almost anything to experience one more time.

There will hopefully be many more summers.

But there will never be this one again.

Don't miss it while you're in it.