Never Want To Let You Go
/
A while ago, I was at a friend’s sixtieth birthday party. During her speech, she said it’d hit home that she probably only had another twenty or so summers left. Although I’m younger than her - so might be able to swing a few more! (not that any of us know how long we’ve got) - her words struck me. For thirty, or even forty, still felt like way too few.
Summer is my favourite season, crazy heatwave days aside. Each year, it goes by too fast. I want to wrap my arms around it and never let it go; to gather up its light, warmth and the fragrances of rose, clover and honeysuckle that steep the air.
I used to think that if I saturated myself with summer, I’d reach its end and be ready to say goodbye. That if I went for enough picnics and lay in enough parks, breathing in their heavenly summer scents, and drank enough glasses of chilled rosé in English gardens, and ate enough juicy cherries and succulent greengages, I’d feel sated. But even though autumn has its own beauty, every year, when summer fades, I’m left longing for more.
It’s the same with everything. However many times I gather my three-year-old in my arms, I know that when the day comes and he doesn’t want to be cuddled by his mother anymore, it won’t have been enough times. And however many cups of tea and chats I have with my elderly parents, there will never have been enough.
I don’t think we’ll ever have our fill of what we truly love. And yet, inevitably, the day will come when we have to say goodbye.
Remembering the impermanence of everything is valuable because it helps us recognise how precious what we love is, and how important it is to enjoy it while it’s still with us. But the shadow side to this recognition can be that we’re already fast-forwarding to the eventual loss of something, while it’s still there to be savoured. And the dread, fear, or sadness that might arise can prevent us from enjoying the experience fully.
It’s a fine line between acknowledging impermanence and using it to enhance our experiences, by not taking them for granted, versus becoming overly invested in it, and letting it mar our pleasure. A bit like cooking, where not enough salt renders a dish flavourless, and too much kills it.
I’m trying to learn to hold all I love with a lighter touch, so I can be as fully present to it as possible. When I grasp too tightly, with hands of fear, I risk squeezing out the delight. When I notice myself thinking, Oh no, we’re already over half-way through summer, and it’ll be autumn before I know it, the challenge is to drop the narrative and come back to this moment: the feel of the grass against my back, the sun on my arms, the scents of the Regent’s Park roses.
