the summer of the black bear

Dada and little man love to read the Redwall books.

Do you know these books?

Little creatures running around on quests, wielding swords and speaking in an Irish brogue (Did I ever mention dada is very good at accents? Did I ever mention his Irish brogue kinda won me over when we were in college? TRUTH)

Always, scrumptious feasts and tarts and deeper and ever pie and ales and elderberry wine and scones with clotted cream (the author says in the cookbook - yes we bought it - that he was a boy during World War II and always remembered reading books about feasts whilst very hungry and feeling irritated with the author that they never described what the foods were...)

And always, for each new season, a naming festival. The abbey folk - mice and badgers and such - would get together and the Abbott would declare the name.

What is this season? The Spring of the Dark Moon. The Summer of the Late Rose. The Fall of the Warriors Return.

They would sing songs. "Namesday! Namesday! Super fun and games day!" And play games. And drink ale. And everyone would dance and drink and eat and read poetry.

And the season would be named.

And this summer we decided to do that.

So, in June, in honor of the bear sighting (Little miss one day, in a calm voice, pointed out the window and said, "Hey! Mom! Its a bear!" and indeed. A full grown bear. Across the yard.) we named our summer.

The Summer of the Black Bear.

And indeed, it was.

And I haven't written so much but it was. Brutish. Growly. Lumbering and slow. Filled with moments of honey. And stinky fish.

The Summer of the Black Bear.

Starting a business. Stress. Working again. Trying to do things that kept on NOT happening. Trying to be okay with that. Lots of visits to the lake. Meeting new friends. Struggle. Kick. Make. It. Work.

And now. It is officially fall. And the season is underway. And the kids are asking for our next Namesday Feast.

And it makes me wonder about being intentional. About saying it. About making it come to be. The dreams and the plans and the work of this summer, the struggles and disappointments. Claiming now a triumph? The what is next question still circling my brain...

This next season of parenting too.

A kid who is coming into a new phase of kid-dom. Eight. Eight is different. Eight is big. Eight is...challenging.

And a five year old who is now in school, learning to read, and learning who she is.

And a three year old, still struggling to transition from mama's girl to big girl.

What will it bring?

What do we want it to look like?

What shall we name this season?

My big thoughts for the day.

Summer of the Black Bear. With your bright sunshine-y globs of honey and stinky fish days. I say a somewhat fond and very firm farewell.

Fall. Yes. Come. Please. Lets name this season and make it be.

Beware IPhoto overload below.