The dry solstice

This is my 15th blog post written from a hillside near my house on or around the summer solstice. I've been seeing conflicting reports on whether yesterday was or today is the first day of summer. But I'm here tonight, continuing a writing tradition that I started in 2007.

I'm not sure from the picture if you can tell how dry the ground is around me. Utah is experiencing perhaps its worst drought in modern history, and it looks like the Parks Department has stopped watering its lawns. 

I felt a little dry, too, as I wondered what to write for this annual installment. The last year has been perhaps the biggest blur in a decade full of big blurs. Almost eight months have passed since the election and six since the attempted insurrection, yet the anxiety kind of festers in the back of my mind. The pandemic is coming up on 18 months, although there's some light at the end of the tunnel thanks to the vaccines, changing the mindset that maybe life can go back to normal -- if it ever actually does -- won't be easy.

But what's mostly on my mind tonight are the boys. Michael begins his senior year of high school in eight weeks, and Ben will be a sophomore. When I started this blog, they were ages 3 and 1. Although they'll always be my sons and I'll be their father, I can't shake the idea that Lori and I are kind of in the home stretch of day-to-day parenting. 

This wasn't supposed to go so quickly. The idea of our life transforming into a post-kid existence -- an existence that's not that far off -- seems almost alien. I sort of don't want to look ahead, relishing the remaining time we have left with them. And I can't help but thinking:

  • Have I been a good dad? (I hope so.)
  • Have I made the most of the time I've had with them? (I think so.)
  • Could I have done more? (Yes, but I think no matter how fulfilled I feel, I would always say that I could have gotten spent more time and better appreciated every moment.)
  • What should I have done differently? (A lot, but I know I did a lot of things right.)
  • Did it go too fast? (Absolutely.)

Next year, I'll be back on this hillside, waiting for the sun to set, listening to "Sister Golden Hair" by America, but I'll be the dad of a high school graduate and an adult. In the meantime, 365 days will pass like nothing but so much will change.

The sun just ducked behind Antelope Island. The nice thing about this park, when that sunset happens, the breeze kicks up and the heat of the day (and it's been so much heat lately) dissipates. I feel cooler. 

I'm in no rush to feel that familiar breeze again anytime soon.

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