Summer Bridge

Summer always feels like the bridge between one version of ourselves and the next. Sometimes that bridge is made of steel and stone and there’s a deep and abundant river below.

And sometimes it’s just a rope swing over a gorge.

It’s hard to categorize this summer- what with its stream of unending internet gifs about whether or not to get vaccinated or wear a mask and whose fault this all is; images of the planes leaving people behind; the fires up north— three months ahead of schedule (I heard a girl in a bikini started it …).

My oldest child started kindergarten, I surfed a wave pool, a "locals only" right, a slab alone in the middle of nowhere. I flew on a plane, read a few books and tried to be there for friends who lost fathers too soon.

I started crying more this summer.

I have been on a mild antidepressant since I had my Kindergartener and felt, as I surrounded myself with warm healing waters, fried rice, family and Hawaiian leis that this would be the perfect time to decrease the dose. Then the tears came from a well that seemed dry that is now overflowing.

Yesterday, I was driving to a bridal shower and realized I didn’t bring my breast pump.

“SIRI TEXT KRISTEN… ‘Hey girl I forgot my pump. Could you bring yours?”

Camp Pendleton, with her sage brushed-rolling-hills and tank engines, was out my window to the right and tears were washing off the first makeup I’d worn in months. Women helping women (and gender neutral robots helping women) — gets me every time.

And then I realized that I’m on the other side of the bridge and maybe it doesn’t matter what the bridge is made out of as long as we try to get to the other side.