The Sacred Space

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I always loved school.

I loved the routine, the consistency. Lunch was always at the same time, followed by recess. Library on Thursday, music on Tuesday, computers on Friday. I loved learning, so that part of school was a win for me, too. I loved to learn and I loved to succeed – so to me, school was wonderful. From pre-K through senior year (could’ve done without middle school, but couldn’t we all?), I was genuinely happy in school.

For me, becoming a teacher felt like a natural extension – an expected follow-up to years of loving the school environment. The same schedules, the comforting consistency, the familiar routines. Even now, as the one setting the expectations and the rules, I find joy in those beloved rhythms.

But the part of school I loved – and still love – the very most? Summer Break, of course.

Winter Break is wonderful and Spring Break is sublime. But Summer Break? That’s something else entirely. When you grow up in school, the year doesn’t end on December 31st. It ends in June on the last day of school. The real New Year begins in September (now August, for some heinous reason) with the start of a new school term, not on January 1st. Summer is the space between. A pause. A breath in and out. There is something sacred about it.

I know most people work year-round. My parents always did, my husband still does. But even in year-round jobs, summer seems … a little looser. A bit more casual, a subtle shift. Maybe it’s the anticipation – plans for a long weekend up north, a week on Mackinac Island, a vacation abroad. Something that makes the daily grind just a little easier to bear.

Summer is the space between. A pause. A breath in and out. There is something sacred about it.

For my family, it was always Mackinac, Traverse City, Tawas, Oscoda. Sometimes Petoskey, sometimes Tahquamenon Falls. We used summer to explore Michigan – to camp, waterski, bike. My parents worked all week, and then Friday would come and we’d pile into the car at midnight to avoid traffic on I-75. We’d arrive at the cabin or campsite in the early hours and start the day at the lake’s edge or around the fire.

Because of that, my childhood memories don’t feature my parents working during the week. I remember them on the ferry to Mackinac, crossing the bridge to the Upper Peninsula, relaxing on bicycles, jumping into the lake, stopping for ice cream. That’s how I picture them.

I think that’s why summer feels sacred. It allows us to return to ourselves – or at least remember why we work so hard. It reminds us that the long hours in the shop, at the desk or in the classroom are all building toward something. Moments of joy. Memories that will carry us through the long winter. Memories our children will hold onto for years.

This summer, we’re heading back to Italy after about four years away. I worry it won’t be the same as the Italy I remember.

(It’s certainly more expensive.) I don’t know exactly what to expect, but I expect to enjoy it, whatever it is. After all, this is what summer is for: that deep breath in a beautiful place, that break from ordinary life, that space between the end of one year and the beginning of another.

Hopefully, I’ll live in my son’s memory as the mother I am on vacation – just as my parents live in mine. That more carefree, happier version of myself. One worth remembering.

Summer may not be the same for everyone. It might not feel like the turning of the year the way it does for students and teachers. But I think we can all agree: summer offers a break – of some kind – to anyone who needs one.

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