on being present

These photos of Camilla Engman's vacation really rile up my inner savages. 

I have the tendency to believe, in the moment, that this - life? - is not as good as what was, what will be, what others have. It's a niggling, ugly thing, and I'd like to be rid of it. This summer has been especially difficult. It feels ripped from me, somehow, with the move and the new job. I dream of cabins and lakes and oceanside popsicles and long, heavy afternoons with books and naps. 

It's that I've been lucky, really: last summer I spent the month of July in a small, rickety house by the sea. 

There was a summer in London, and France - long walks on the Heath, museums and dark pubs, and then the cicada-laden dreamscape of Privat, days that started and ended in the pool, long days where I would throw myself into the water in my summer dresses, take naps on the daybed, wander through the vineyards and stone villages, make dinners that took hours, slow roasting the market bounty, cheese and bread we broke with our hands. 

Fuck France. Seriously. It ruins everything. Spend a day there and suddenly idea of life anywhere else becomes not only unpalatable, but hopelessly illogical. 

So this summer has looked less like the ones in the past. Yes, less like I would have liked it to look. But I need to spend more time reminding myself of what I have, of how lovely this summer has been - how difficult, yes, and not quite as I would want it - but also how generous and surprising. 

A brief summer romance, a farmhouse in Vermont, days beside the lake and all my friends nearby, afternoons at the beach eating peaches and burying the pits in the sand, watching the sun splash the Manhattan buildings, long walks up and down the riverbanks, Cuckoos Nest in Bryant Park, Andrew Bird and lemonade, whole lengths of afternoons and evenings and nights on blankets in Prospect Park.  Epic novels and jaunts southward and air-conditioned movie theatres and Bon Iver right up close, bagels and ice cream sandwiches that will change your life. A ferry out to Governors Island. Butter Pecan in a cone. The polished planks of the High Line. Wild raspberries in the mountains. Swimming holes. Fireflies. Barbecues on scratches of grass known as New York backyards. Cold drinks in warm hands. Ice on the pulse points. Poetry on rooftops. Sicilian pizza. The list goes on. 

Everything glows more brightly in the rearview. But why drink the love up only after it has gone?