Summer is a celebration of laziness; when it's not just appropriate or permissable but almost mandatory to spend swathes of time accomplishing nothing but the enjoyment of simply being alive. Not that that is a trivial accompliment.
With the Russian lover I have learned how to simply be, and how to be content with that. It isn't complicated; I didn't have to take a meditation seminar or see a therapist. Instead of trying to get to certain momentous occaisions, treating pleasure like a fuel station I occaisionally stop at, I allow myself to experience pleasure always - for all reasons and for no reaons at all. Nothing is special, yet everything is sacred. Maybe this is part of the reason I've never felt urgency to marry the Russian lover; I don't need a special day to celebrate being together or to express a desire to stay together. Sitting with each other on the balcony as the sun sets every night, sipping wine and talking for hours, is a daily ritual that means more, affirms more, than lighting a unity candle or swapping jewelry. Everything we could ever need to say to each other is said in how we live our lives together.
Our newest summer ritual is an old ritual with an upgrade. Our favorite summer brunch spot is an unassuming little French crepe cafe, and while the weather is warm we are there every weekend. It is a BYO, but in the past we never bothered to bring a bottle of anything with us. One Saturday early this summer, however, we decided that the day called for a good bottle of champaign. Why? Because we were alive, because it was a beautiful Saturday in June, because we had no plans for the day except to enjoy it. So we had our crepes with a bottle of champaign, and after an hour or so the bottle was empty but we were so content sitting in the cafe that we looked at each other and agreed the day called for a second bottle of champaign.
Hours later we strolled home, fell into bed, and dozed away the heat of the late afternoon like a couple of cats. We decided that it had been a perfect summer day, and when the next Saturday rolled around we repeated the previous week's indulgence. And we have most weeks since, dubbing them our "Champaign Saturdays."
Sometimes people, obvserving a young couple popping expensive champaign, ask us what we're celebrating. I think they expect that the answer will be an engagement, an anniversary, a baby, or a birthday. We look at each other, smile and shrug, before telling them "It's Saturday!" They're not sure what to do with this answer, and they seem uncomfortable with the fact that there is no obvious occaision behind our bliss. Because what is the world coming to when people celebrate all of life, instead of just its milestones?
Most people seem to be in the business of simply logging mileage; living life like Asian tourists, hopping off the bus to take pictures of things of designated import before jumping back on the bus to get to the next stop, ignoring everything in between. It's not even about stopping to smell the roses; it's just figuring out that roses exist between the bridal bouquet and the funeral florals, and that often the days with nothing marked on the calendar turn out to be the best days of all.