The Cool, Naked In-Between

I spent the summer in the buff -- cooking, cleaning, reading, napping, working online. 

In Portland, Maine, I live in the attic apartment of converted 1800s house with a window to a neighbor who keeps the curtains opened. After a while, though, heat trumped decency, and I hoped he thought me graceful in my nudity, if ever he peeked my way.

Sitting on a window seat while working on the computer, I imagined myself a sandwich packed between heat steaming of blue/white clouds and the self-standing fan blowing air on me day and night (my thoughts were on saving for investing in a portable cooling system next summer since these older houses don't offer central air conditioning).  Sanity was inviting in the cool, naked in-between except when I thought of the fashion of productivity (my protocol mind believes in dressing for constructive production, even though I teach online and students would never guess at my new “clotheless” work ethic). When I gave into angst of being nude at 11:00 am, even if for a second, the sweat collected on my brow, and it felt like I was stewing in the first bubbling soup of hot, murky creation. So I gave in to summer’s demand to forgo clothes and eventually forgot about always being in the buff.   

At first my nakedness was an act of rebellion demanding internal justification -- even though I live alone. Was I even allowed to be so rapturously free in my own skin? What about awareness for some religious, social, legal, psychological connotation? What about inferiority for some or all of my body parts -- were my biker's thighs too muscular, my arms not toned enough, my...?  For a long minute,  hyper-consciousness led to distraction. In my society, the body is everywhere but only to be judged by magazines, plastic surgeons, beauty experts, social media, women, men. And it always comes up short. 

I love that scene in "Love in the Time of Cholera" when the two fated lovers meet, already very aged, and consummate their love with falling skin and rattling bones -- one of the most beautiful sex scenes ever. There is something calming, natural, and normal about going beyond the nonsense of definitions, labels, and limitations of anything--fear, beauty, love, happiness, sadness, sex, anger.... The truth of my summer nakedness was simple: It was nothing more, nothing less unless I made it so, and that rationalization was very Buddhist on my part.

But back to my contemplation on the infernal heat: Unlike the many years I spent living under a Florida sun, which had the focus of a surgeon on a incisive hunt, Maine’s sun was gentle, non-prying, and shy. Its skies didn't glare or create visions on the highway. Its heat traveled mostly with gentle breezes except on days it took center stage (heat waves are rare but occasionally there are those three-consecutive days of 90 degree Farenheit). There is the occasional fog that swallows up the town and a rain storm here and there to let out the built-up pressure of a too muggy day.

I learned to love summer this year and appreciate passing time in its cradle, the seasons. In Florida summer was constant, giving the illusion of an eternity of time to do, wait, learn, for example, a language, leave an unhappy marriage or finalize a divorce, complete a degree, travel; that is until you turned 75, and like my friend’s aunt,  you sat all day in a rocking chair bemoaning wasted dreams.  "Was this all there was?" she cried. 

In Maine you know, feel, and welcome beginnings and endings. You say, ‘enjoy the warmth because soon we’ll be at 5 below.’ You canoe, wear shorts, sandals, straw hats, drink beer on decks, nap, lounge around, and believe wholeheartedly in summer--when it arrives and stays for a while because soon you will need to change clothes, plans, mindset, forgot about the past and live in a whole new, compelling, and demanding present. 

Read my exciting memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO