Summer Fifty-Five
12.27.20
I study and teach resilience and Positive Psychology at the Positive Psychology Center at UPenn. I ask people in my workshops and classes: What keeps you whole?
Most mornings I wake up with a quiet anxiety humming in the background. Optimism and happiness are hard won. Sometimes this embarrasses me because I spend most of my professional life talking about well-being and I worry I’m a hypocrite, or bad at putting what I teach into practice. In other moments, I believe I’m better at what I do because I understand what it’s like to struggle.
Because of the pandemic, I had more time to think about the question I ask others, and I found that I couldn’t answer it. I had the unsettling awareness that my life had become monochromatic instead of technicolor. In my commitment to my kids and work, I allowed parts of me to go dormant.
I called summer 2020 “Summer Fifty-Five” in recognition that it was my fifty-fifth summer, and out of a commitment to dedicate the season to finding the answer to that question. Summer Fifty-Five became a lab for me. I dialed back on work, and started taking walks — around my neighborhood, through Philly, in Cape May.
I’d walk to Manor Road and watch as they took down the Spanish tiled house. I’d stand behind the bulldozer or crouch next to the dumpster as glass shattered and bricks crumbled, the pile of cinder blocks behind the last stucco wall getting bigger each day. I’d walk to the Japanese garden that is hidden among Oaks and Pines, just a quarter mile from my house. I’d sit on a bench across from a Japanese Maple and watch the rocks and bark turn darker shades of grey and red as the sun started to set.
I spent weeks in Cape May, and would drink my morning coffee at the edge of the ocean and then walk the beach to the nature reserve. The first few times, I’d have to guess whether it was the yellow or blue trail that ran by the marsh where osprey seemed to walk on water. It took me over a week to find the path that dead-ended at the swamp with beautiful blue-green algae. But by August, I could walk each trail in my mind. I felt at home – unselfconscious and bold – laying on my stomach inches from a tortoise or snake, watching how it moved. I knew where to sit to get a glimpse of a red fox, and where to trespass to see a floor of golden pine needles.
Places that had been nondescript –a house, a garden, a park – became sources of wonder and awe.
When I walked, I would listen to music, some that brought back memories from high school, a lot that was new. My pace would match the beat, and my gate would inadvertently adjust to reflect the type of music in my ears. I learned lyrics to songs that would offend some, but filled me with daring. The music helped me trespass; it egged me on, challenging me to hop a fence or duck under brush. I kept a mental playlist of the songs that I could count on to push me past a No Trespassing sign. Lyrics from these songs started showing up in my dreams. My dreams had a soundtrack and that brought me crazy delight.
On other walks, I’d have long talks with my sister or a friend. I’m usually a good listener, and comfortable hearing whatever the other person wants to share. But I tend to be private and feel awkward talking about myself, even when I want to be open. It’s like being on a rope swing, swinging out across the lake, wanting to let go, but always finding myself back on the shore, looking down at the lake, rope still in hand. As summer turned to autumn, that started to change.
In July, Guy bought me a real camera and lenses. The walks got longer – my camera bag stuffed with protein bars, water, back up batteries, extra clothes. The weight on my back started to feel normal and comforting, and I’d miss it when I left the camera at home. When I walk, camera in hand, I notice things that I otherwise wouldn’t see: rivets on a bridge, graffiti in a tunnel, colors and shapes reflected in windows and puddles. Because of photography, I now kneel to look at layers of green moss on the side of a tree. I hang out at demolition sites, chatting with the guys knocking down walls. I fill with emotion, eyes wet, heart full, as I stand spellbound by starlings flying over brush that line the dunes. The sound of the shutter click is the sexiest sound I know.
Perhaps the most important thing I learned during Summer Fifty-Five is that even when I walk the same road over and over, if I’m patient and observant, I will see something new. When I look through the lens of my camera, I find the spectacular in the ordinary. I’ve learned to trust that there is goodness and beauty everywhere, in the world and in myself.
These photographs are my answer to the question what keeps me whole.
![](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5fd57109c704802ff55291bb/7fc4ef30-83a0-4fcc-963c-4c839cf0eeda/252E6F22-D216-4ABE-A3B8-D5432F9D74F8_1_201_a.jpeg)
Noisy, crowded, chaotic, dirty, delicious, edgy, fast, color.
"She's so nasty."
"I thought I loved her."
"The dog died and then they did too."
"But I asked for pastrami!"
"Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you."
"I laughed so hard the pee came!"
Conversations everywhere.
Everyone a character.
Where do they sleep at night?
Do their houses have comfy armchairs, and warm kitchens?
Do they brush out their hair at night and slide into beds with clean white sheets?
Who do they say goodnight to?
Noisy, crowded, chaotic, dirty, delicious, edgy, fast, color.
Goodnight, New York.
Horns, music, doors slamming, brakes, laughter, shouts.
The blackout curtains can’t blackout the night sounds.
I can’t sleep.
I get lost in my made up stories of the street sounds.
A man and woman not wanting to part, nowhere to go so late, they stand on the corner laughing, hoping their laughter carries them into tomorrow.
A couple breaking up. Her tears don’t move him anymore. He remembers years ago when he’d do anything to stop her tears —and that the back of his hand softly on her cheek would — but now her tears feel manipulative and he keeps his hand in his pocket.
Two teenage girls tipsy. Giggling. Retelling the night over and over. Laughing harder with each telling. Their boldness and daring getting bigger each time they tell it. Knowing that by Monday at school, their night in the city will be epic.
When I finally sleep, my dreams are noisy.
Horns, music, doors slamming, brakes, laughter, shouts.
Good morning, New York.
Brown
I sit on a tree stump across from a field of brush, and think about the color brown.
How many words for brown can I name?
I can only think of UPS brown, and my mind drifts to the packages I’ve ordered and when they’ll arrive.
I fidget and feel stupid.
Stupid because I can’t think of other words for brown, stupid because I’m thinking about other words for brown.
I breathe and let myself sink into the tree.
I run my hand along the bark and a feel the notches where it was cut.
Start with the color of the bark, I tell myself.
Dark brown, and I laugh at how bad I am at this game.
I look across the field of reeds and watch a squirrel drop something and turn back to pick it up.
Bronze!
The light on the reeds looks like the pot on our kitchen windowsill.
Copper.
Sand.
Wheat!
I don’t know the name of the reeds but they remind me of wheat and now I’m singing “amber waves of grain” in my mind.
I get up and walk into the reeds, crouching with my camera.
The sun, golden and low in the sky, feels warm on my back.
Dirt brown.
I pick up a chestnut and feel its spikey skin. Chestnut!
Another is smooth and looks like the mahogany stain on our porch.
Chocolate brown.
Brown sugar.
Caramel brown.
A heron flies above me. So close that I can see its thin legs and the underside of its grey-brown wings.
I remember the herons that I watch in Cape May as they walk along the marsh. They walk delicately, a little awkward, nervous as they turn their head to the side, as if they are listening for something.
I didn’t expect to see a heron today with its long gold-lined beak and yellow rimmed eyes.
Goldenrod.
Ginger.
I hear a rustle near me and I hope it’s a fox. I know it’s silly but I think the red fox and I have a special connection.
I look for foxes when I walk, especially at dusk or early in the morning.
I see them near my house, and on the dunes in Cape May, and darting between tombstones at the cemetery where I take long walks and take pictures of Weeping Cherry trees and Japanese Maples.
Shayna and I saw a red fox a few weeks ago in the parking lot of the Hilton where we went to escape our dog’s fleas.
A man sitting in a car, maybe waiting for his wife to get off of work, called out to us. He pointed to the red fox sitting like a dog just a few feet away at the edge of the parking lot. He asked us if it was a fox or coyote.
Fox, I said. And the man smiled as the three of us watched the fox run into the bushes.
My heart raced and I felt lucky.
Russet!
It’s not a fox. It’s another squirrel looking for food.
Acorn brown!
Taupe.
Tan.
Latte.
Mocha.
Rust.
My legs feel stiff from kneeling on the cold grass.
Pine needles stick in my sneaker.
A family walks by me and the little boy points to the field and sings the word yellow over and over again. His parents sing the word with him.
I sing the word yellow too, quietly.
Singing yellow.
Singing brown.
Singing color.
![CF11DAF7-FD1A-4680-92E6-A83B5980BD2E.jpg](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5fd57109c704802ff55291bb/1608147491510-KNVP9EGP6X55MH25WZOH/CF11DAF7-FD1A-4680-92E6-A83B5980BD2E.jpg)