Summer in November

My cousin is part of an upcoming event that boasts, in bold type, of how it will be celebrating summer in November. The poster is loaded with colors and illustrations of tropical trees and beach sunsets. I can imagine that it will be festive, that it will take people’s mind off of pre-Christmas traffic and last minute shopping. Perhaps, if they market it some more, it will even take their minds off the sorry state of our government at the moment.

It is not an event I would actually attend but I like the idea behind it.

In truth, that’s the kind of person I want to be. I want have a celebration bursting inside of me even in the dead of a somber, gray month. October was a good month, a great month even. 2013, in general, has been kicking some serious ass in all the best possible ways.

Consider this a time capsule letter to my 50-year-old self.

I am renouncing all pity parties. I am quitting on the act of selfish wallowing. On feeling sorry for myself when I don’t need to be. On temporarily forgetting that this thing called life? It’s pretty. freaking. awesome.

Or, at least, I’d like to spend my life trying to. Because right now, I’m living out an anti-pity party. I’m dancing in the middle of a non-delusional self-love revolution. Right now, I am more fearless and vulnerable than I ever have been. And I like it. I am writing to freeze the present. I’m going to need to call upon this moment a million times a day in the someday future when my self-esteem decides to take a drop. (Because it will. I know it will by virtue of simply being human.)

Please. Please please please please please. Remember:

My mom said that growing up, I was the girl who never stopped smiling, who kept the sunshine plastered on her face wherever she went. I was bullied throughout grade school for not being like everyone else so I wrote stories and poetry instead. I fell in love with words and, in turn, they saved me. I have fallen in love with people too and just the same, I have fallen out of love with them as well. There has been hurt and there has been danger but there has never been a season where I was not loved to the core by someone or some being. You can take away the words, you can even take away the smile my mom once wrote about but I am loved loved loved so infinitely and truly that on the days I am fully awake to this fact, I don’t even understand how I can possibly contain it all.

And, yes. Crap still happens.

But there are too many reasons to carry on, to throw freedom parties left and right, inviting people along with me. I have been wrong on so many counts but trust me on this one: it is great to be around people who can unashamedly enjoy the things that make being alive feel so damn good.

I celebrate bad hair days that make the good ones all the better. I celebrate getting stuck in traffic because I desperately need to be reminded to stop and breathe every once in a while. I celebrate storms because they make the sunshine seem much sweeter. I celebrate failed plans — they simply make room for better ones. I celebrate that table for one because I don’t find my own company all that bad. I celebrate ugly and beautiful and true and painful and every other thing that falls under the umbrella of Life.

I know it seems almost too positive to bear but a few weeks ago, there were people intent on throwing me a personal pity party for the most unnecessary reasons.  And I just want to tell them I’m happy.

Maybe it doesn’t look it. Maybe it seems like I have no reason to be. But I promise you that my heart does not hang on the door of the past.

I am happy and I am happy, so very happy, you-have-no-idea-happy, for that and him and them. Yes, I said it. I am happy. There has never been a reason not to be.

This is the mantra that I keep and the mantra that I carry:

Summer in November, yes. An endless summer in the heart of all Novembers.

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3 thoughts on “Summer in November

  1. Pingback: Ghosts. | A Walking Random.

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