Summer has a way of stretching time.
The evenings linger. Dinner happens later. The garden asks for water every morning. We find ourselves sitting outside just a little longer, watching the light slowly soften before it disappears.
It is a season that whispers, Stay a little while.
Last week, I spent a few days in Portland, OR with three friends from high school. Between us are more than three decades of shared history—inside jokes that need no explanation, stories we’ve each told a hundred times, and long stretches of life where we lived in different cities, states, even countries, yet somehow brought back together with a deep fondness and appreciation for both our past and present.
It’s astonishing when you stop to think about it.
We witnessed each other’s awkward teenage years (I’ll refrain from sharing those photos), heartbreaks, careers, marriages, illnesses, losses, gray hairs, changing bodies, and shifting dreams. We’ve celebrated births and grieved deaths. We’ve become entirely different people (which we’re all grateful for) while somehow remaining deeply recognizable to one another.
As a death doula, I spend a great deal of time thinking about what remains.
When life is nearing its end, people rarely talk about promotions, perfectly clean houses, or checking everything off a to-do list. They speak about relationships. They remember laughter around kitchen tables, road trips, ordinary afternoons, and the people who made them feel seen.
The currency of a meaningful life has never been productivity nor the stuff accumulated.
It has always been connection.
Yoga teaches me the same lesson, though in quieter ways. Every practice invites me to arrive exactly where I am, as I am—not where I was ten years ago, nor where I hope to be next month. The breath asks for presence, not perfection. The body asks for listening rather than fixing.
Perhaps this is why summer has the potential to be so nourishing. Sure we can focus on heat, the energy, all that potential. But what if instead, we tune in, pay attention, rather than collecting accomplishments.
The tomatoes ripen in their own time. The flowers bloom without urgency. The sun rises and sets whether I am paying attention or not.
The invitation is simply to notice.
To notice the warmth on your skin before you rush inside.
To notice the friend you’ve had for decades sitting across from you, laughing at a story you’ve both heard before.
To notice the people you love while they are still here to love.
Summer reminds me that longevity isn’t measured only by years. It is measured by presence. By showing up again and again. By choosing curiosity over certainty, forgiveness over keeping score, and shared time over perfect plans.
None of us knows how many summers we will be given.
That truth isn’t meant to frighten us. It is meant to sharpen our appreciation.
Impermanence has a curious way of making ordinary moments feel sacred.
A walk with the dog.
Fresh basil from the garden.
A familiar voice on the other end of the phone.
Savasana at the end of class.
Friends who have quietly accompanied you through half your life.
These moments don’t ask to be extraordinary.
Only noticed.
As the days begin—almost imperceptibly—to grow shorter again, I find myself practicing something I often ask my students to practice on the mat: resisting the urge to rush through an experience while it’s happening.
To stay for one more breath.
One more conversation.
One more sunset.
One more season.
Just a few examples of moments I’ve especially enjoyed so far this summer
Because perhaps this is the real work of both yoga and mortality awareness—not preparing for the end, but becoming so awake to the present that we don’t miss the life we’re living while we’re busy anticipating what comes next.
May this summer offer you long evenings, deep breaths, old friends, and many small reminders that this beautiful, ordinary life is worthy of your full attention.