There was a time when we would walk through a meadow, admiring the wildflowers and lying down on soft mounds of grass, without worry of Lyme disease or fire ants, and the start of summer would signal nothing but hope and dreams. I can’t imagine lying down in a meadow now, and I mourn all those children who won’t have such a carefree sense of joy. Of course there are other joys that children today get, I just wonder how much of it is natural and how much is manufactured. Now I’m starting to sound like the old man I’m quickly becoming, and that was not the point of this post.
The meadow is the point. Because while the meadow may now have new inhabitants, good and bad, it remains largely the same – at least the idea of the meadow remains the same. These days, that’s sometimes all that remains, but it will have to be enough. It is an idea of summer freedom, of carefree moments, of sun and heat and happiness. For me, it’s a collection of childhood memories, and some adult ones as well, as summer visits for three months of every year, and we are constantly adding to our memory vaults if we’re lucky.
The meadows of my youth were mostly just fields that went unattended for a few months when school was out, but the glory of a meadow is how quickly it reclaims its form, even after being mowed down. I admire that resilience and ability to bounce back so quickly after attempted destruction. And even when shorn of her waving grains of future glory, the spirit of the meadow survives, locked in memory. Before this summer even arrives, I’m looking back at some summers that came before, and indulging in a little nostalgia.
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