Another season of gathering is here, only this one takes place not indoors around stoves and fireplaces, but out in open spaces. Instead of wrapping blankets around ourselves, we spread them on the ground and lay back with our eyes wide to the heavens. This is the season that reverts everyone back to their 8-year-old selves, floods us all with a heart-punching nostalgia for the simplicity of being young and dirty and half-clothed and free.
I got in a head-clearing hike before the rain hit this afternoon. Down the beach and up through the heavily wooded trails in Lincoln Park. Urban parks are great, but I have never really loved one like I do LP, probably because it makes me feel far away from the city and I can have the salt water and massive trees and long empty paths all within 15 minutes of my house.
It’s those times when you’re craning your neck to stare up into the black sky from a hammock, wrapped in a woven white blanket belonging to your best friend, and everything smells like her and childhood and sun-warmed-grass-thats-now-cooled-in-the-dark and saltwater and damp, and the voices of the neighbors and the neighbors’ kids trickle up to your ears through the night in xylophonic trills of laughter, and the dogs are barking on the hill, and you can hear waves washing onRead More