The Sound of Summer

The sound of winter is silence. The sound of spring is pause. And the sound of summer is people. The lover of alliteration in me wishes I had thought this through a little better, but it is what it is.

After forty-five years in Florida, I thought I knew how I felt about summer. Tourists ventured out to embrace the sunshine while the locals worked around it. You went outside in the morning or waited until evening. The middle of the day belonged to the heat, the humidity, and an afternoon storm that could rearrange your plans in minutes. There was a rhythm to it, and most of that rhythm involved knowing when to go back inside.

Then I experienced summer in Pennsylvania. And everyone was outside. Everyone. People were walking, working in their yards, sitting on their porches, talking to their neighbors. And they seemed perfectly happy to stay there. I kept waiting for the part of the day when we would all retreat indoors, but people just kept living.

My neighbor mentioned how hot the summer had been, and I laughed. I couldn’t help it. To me, it felt like a Florida spring. A breeze. Some warm afternoons. Occasionally humid, but bearable. After a lifetime of what felt like four seasons of summer, I was discovering that I could spend time outside in July and actually enjoy myself.

And once I stopped anticipating how miserable I was going to be, I began noticing the people. Conversations drifting across yards. Fireflies. Children playing. Neighbors lingering outside long enough to have a conversation that went beyond a wave on the way to the car. After the quiet of winter and the quick unfolding of spring, there was something beautiful about hearing so much life happening out in the open.

I wanted to be part of it.

That surprised me, because I had spent years saying I hated summer. I knew how to prepare for it, how to avoid the worst of it, how to arrange my day around getting through it. I had built habits around the heat that made sense in Florida. But here I was in the Valley, still expecting to need them.

It made me wonder how many other things I’ve decided I don’t enjoy because of the conditions in which I first experienced them. How often I arrive somewhere new carrying an old expectation. I assume I already know how something will feel, what it will cost me, or how quickly I’ll want to leave. Sometimes I make the decision before I’ve given myself a chance to experience what’s actually in front of me.

We build boundaries for reasons. We learn what overwhelms us, what exhausts us, what requires more than we have to give. There is wisdom in paying attention to those things. But I’m realizing I also need to pay attention when my surroundings change. Some of the walls I built were responses to conditions I no longer live in.

I wonder how often God has given me room to enjoy something, and I’ve stayed inside because I remember when it was difficult. How many invitations I’ve declined out of habit. How many good things I’ve approached already bracing myself.

Summer in the Valley gave me a very ordinary opportunity to reconsider. I could step outside. Stay a little longer. Talk to someone. Let an evening unfold without counting the minutes until I could get back into the air conditioning. And the more I did, the more I enjoyed a season I thought I had already made up my mind about.

There were still hot days. My neighbor was entitled to her opinion, even if the Floridian in me had questions. But there were also so many evenings worth being outside for, and so many people outside to share them with.

I’m glad I didn’t spend the whole season waiting for it to end. I’m glad I let this summer teach me something new. After forty-five years, I found myself opening the door, hearing the neighbors, and wanting to join them.

The sound of summer is people. And this year, you could hear me out there, too.

Xo Chari