In Santa Cruz, summer arrives slowly. This week I realized the morning light has started waking me up before 7 instead of having to drag myself out of bed greeted by fog. The birds are back, too, filling the days with sound that carries throughout my neighborhood.

I feel oddly similar to how I did last year, my first summer here. Like there is space again.

Summer has always felt that way to me. Every year, something falls away before it appears with this quiet promise that something larger is about to begin.

My friends say it’s the “summer of outside”. Lately, I think they might be right.

Almost Summer

I’ve felt this sensation before: the ache of loving a moment while simultaneously understanding it cannot last. A tiny garage crowded with surf trophies and party lights. The sound of flip flops against old carpet. Loving people in slow motion because some part of me already knows I will someday miss them.

When goodbyes become unavoidable, I instinctively cling harder. I photograph everything. I try to preserve the feeling before it disappears.

But every ending seems to create space for the next little life to find you.

In December of 2023, before any of the change had fully arrived, I wrote this in my journal:

“My comfort zone will be packed into cardboard boxes… My cameras will protect my comfort. My backpacks will hold only the weight of what I need and the unknown will lead me to exactly where I need to be.”

At the time, I thought I was writing about escape.

Now I think I was writing about trust, and the adventure of becoming.