Indian Sumer

I hesitate to use the term "Indian Summer" for multiple reasons...

For one thing, the words are confusing and meaningless for people who are unfamiliar with the terminology -- such as native-Dutch speakers (and probably a considerable number of native-English speakers as well)... Secondly, I've always wondered if the term is some kind of racist artifact (you know, in the same way that "Indian Giver" is a way to refer to a rude person who takes back a gift that has already been freely given) -- thus, I worry that my use of the phrase "Indian Summer" casts a shadow of bigotry on my language... And finally, well, I don't really know if it's late enough in the year to pull out such a phrase, as it's generally meant to indicate a taste of summer in the midst of deep autumn -- and it is, after all, technically still summer (until 21 September)...

Yet I somehow feel that the term is appropriate for Amsterdam this week. And I feel compelled to acknowledge and bask in the glory of Indian Summer in Holland.

The fact of the matter is that we had already braced ourselves for the worst. Perhaps it was a bit pessimistic, but we had good reason to believe that the spirits of November and January were already posessing the soul of the city in the waning months of "summer." Just a week into August, nature forced us to dig out our jackets and rain gear in opposition to the misty chills and gray skies of Northern Europe (Marci often reminds me that this has been the phenomenon every year since we've lived here). For two or three solid weeks, we endured generally dreary conditions -- and I had basically resigned myself to the fact that it would be March or April until Amsterdam would really experience the joys of sunshine and warm air again (this sounds depressive, but in fact it's pragmatic realism)...

But then, this week... Glory, glory! The sun! The skies! The grass and trees! The joys of summer revisited -- Indian Summer... Over the last week or so, I've ended up stuffing my raincoat into my bag more often than I've been forced to wear it. The sky gleams a warm and brilliant blue, like the sparkles in my wife's eyes. The sun laughs upon my shoulders. Riding bicycle is like growing wings and swooping as a swallow through the streets of Amsterdam. Playing in the park with my children is like medicine for the soul... And I feel happy.

So I don't really know why I should feel fearful of using the term "Indian Summer." There's nothing confusing or derrogatory or misleading about it. Perhaps it's illogical, but in its essence, Indian Summer is an experience of grace -- and grace is necessarily illogical. Pure and unmitigated favor and goodness to an undeserving-yet-appreciative soul. And in this, I cannot escape the use of the term. And I most certainly cannot escape the grace and joy and goodness of an Indian Summer in early September...

Nor do I intend to do so.