Incon-ceeeeevable

For a long time--more than forty years, to be more precise yet still coy--I knew this place only in the summer. I had seen a few pictures of northwestern Ontario in the winter, but basically, winter here was an intellectual construct. It was something I knew existed, but it was not real to me.

Sort of like firing a weapon in self-defense. Opening a retail store and selling things to customers who want them. Winning the lottery.

Here we are at the beginning of August, the time when my family traditionally showed up for our three weeks of camp life. It's this time of year, the explosion of summer at its most full, that is "normal" to me. And other times of year now seem, as the subject line suggests, inconceivable.

Yet the rest of the seasons, and the transition times, have been fully real in the years that I have lived them. They were real at the time, but seem less so now. How does that work? Looking at yesterday's picture of snow, paging through my stored photos of the other seasons--even pictures of May and June this year or previous years I've been here--I see scenes that I recognize. If I try hard enough, I can remember things about them.

But, even though I lived them, those seasons don't exist for me in the same way that this place, today, does.

These are the days when you know why "growing like a weed" is so true that it became cliche. When new growth on the trees stops and all the greens deepen from lime and celery to forest (and there's a reason they call it "forest" green) and mallard. When ducklings and goslings become harder and harder to distinguish from their parents.

Other seasons feel different. I do remember telling my husband, back in February or March, that summer was inconceivable. Wrapping in layer upon layer to go outside, choosing which mittens I needed, wishing for more pairs of wool socks--those activities were "normal." It seemed impossible that I would soon (in the grand scheme of things, "a few months" is equivalent to "soon") sit in a tank top and shorts in a rowboat.

But, probably because of those forty-odd years, summer remains more essentially real than winter, even though it's shorter. Like the academic calendar I use to organize my internal "new year," it's imprinted at a deep level.

I have spent a lot of my so-called adulthood considering aspects of my upbringing. Some I save; some I discard with relief.

I wonder if my internal sense of this place will eventually change its default setting, so that winter is the "normal" season and summer is the glorious aberration. If it does, it will happen at a level beyond my control. I don't think I can create a process analogous to "overcoming my upbringing."

I don't necessarily want to try--but I do want to pay attention. Because this setting, these few weeks, are a glorious time. And if they lose their default status, I'd like to say goodbye.