If I had still been in winter plumage, and if they caught me on a good day, I'm certain I could have made that my mission; being the very best concertmaster would have been my number one obsession. In the winter, I have nothing else for which to strive.
It's not that I'm irresponsible. It's not that I can't be a leader when the role is assigned to me, and it's not that I can't be committed.
Something happens to me when the days are long and warm. Even though I think I wish I wanted that extra responsibility for the summer concert series, I know deep down that I could never have put my whole heart into it, and I would have hated giving up my August in turn.
Summer is for fun and play, on top of long, grueling hours in the kitchen, making rolls, brownies, cookies, cinnamon rolls, and cakes for 250 people every day. George and I work our eight-plus hours on our feet, scoffing at the thought of fifteen-minute breaks and half-hour lunch breaks. Some coffee for battery-recharging, and off we go to the next adventure.
Summer is when I race. I have a goal to beat last year's half marathon time. I have to keep my body fit and my dedication undivided at this point, or all that training will not bear fruit. I can't stand the thought of failing this year.
Summer is for fishing. Ask the salmon, they know that there is only one time that they will make the journey up the river, and no other time will do. When the fish run, we sieze the opportunity with the same eager rush to the river's edge. It goes like clockwork, every year, with the rubber waders and tackle in one hand, binoculars and bird book in the other.
It is summer that causes me to eye every day off for months in advance, scheming and plotting the course that will enable me to suck the most marrow from each waking second. If you see me, you will notice dark circles under my eyes, unwashed pants, and disheveled, windblown hair. As an outsider, you will notice, but here, it's an all-too-common appearance. Save the washing and house-cleaning and practicing for the long dark hush at the end of the fireweed blossoms. It can all wait, and so can responsibility.
I don't want to be the concertmaster of this year's summer concert. As much as the option tantalizes and beckons me, it just doesn't fit. But this doesn't remove the fact that I wished they'd at least asked.
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