Summer stretched before me, expansive like the open field near my house. The same place I would find little patches of wild strawberries early in the season, kneel before the ruby jewels, grasp each fruit and with a gentle pinch pop them into my mouth one by one. The pads of my pointer and thumb would blush for days and smell of strawberries.
Later in the summer, I would return and search for huckleberries and blueberries on the slant of the hill. They were not plentiful and despite my best efforts, I would barely capture enough fruit to add to a muffin batter for the morning’s breakfast, but I didn’t care for summer was slow and there was always tomorrow.
Time is relative. When I was young, time crawled at a snail’s pace. Now, it is often a blur, however I can manipulate my perception of time by noting details and taking moments to recognize shape, shadow and hue of my surroundings slowing the pace. Mindfully, gratitude swells within me. Those moments of contentment appear eternal.