The Season of Almost There

This time of year always carries a strange kind of tension, like everything is hanging by a taut thread and teetering on the edge of becoming something else. School is almost out, the garden is almost planted, and summer is almost here. There’s an electric feeling in the air, one made of equal parts exhaustion and hope. Everything feels stretched thin, but somehow still full of promise, as if we’re standing right on the edge of the season we’ve been working toward.
May is a funny little month in the world of education. The calendar fills up with state testing, projects, field trips, meetings, concerts, awards, cleanup days, and all the other odds and ends that get crammed into the final stretch of the school year. Everyone is tired, the school year is glacially crawling toward the finish line, and summer feels close enough to smell, but not quite close enough to sink your teeth into yet.
Students especially feel the pull of this last full month of school. They’re itching to be free, tired of the nonstop schedule of events and deadlines, and more than ready for the slower rhythm waiting on the other side. Staff feel it too, even if we’re usually too busy juggling paperwork, schedules, end-of-year loose ends, and the general chaos of May to fully admit it. There’s a sense of excitement laced with exhaustion running through the halls, and everyone seems to be operating on that special end-of-year fuel made of caffeine, stubbornness, and the promise of sleeping in someday.
The strange thing is, “almost out” somehow feels longer than the rest of the year combined. Maybe it’s because the reward is finally visible. For some, that reward is final grades, while for others, it’s a diploma that ushers them into the next chapter of their lives. For many of us, it’s simply the hope of a different pace, a little more breathing room, and days that don’t begin and end quite so tightly bound to bells, schedules, and deadlines. Summer may not be effortless, but from this side of May, it still looks like a doorway.
School isn’t the only place where the hum of anticipation hangs in the air. Around the homestead, seeds are being planted, starts are coming up, waterlines are being laid, and the weather is being watched with the kind of intensity usually reserved for courtroom dramas and playoff games. There’s a certain kind of hope tucked into this season of preparation. The garden is not much to look at yet, at least not compared to what it might become, but the potential is there in every row, every tray of starts, and every stubborn little sprout pushing its way toward the light.
Of course, anticipation doesn’t mean stillness. While we wait for plants to break through the soil, buds to appear, and the first real signs of harvest to show themselves, the to-do list keeps growing. There’s watering to keep up with, weeds to fight, rows to finish, starts to harden off, and plans that have to adjust every time the weather decides to get dramatic. The tasks never really end, but there’s something grounding about that too. The work reminds us that waiting isn’t always passive. Sometimes waiting looks like tending what we hope will grow.
That’s part of the beauty of this season. Everything feels unfinished, but nothing feels empty. School isn’t quite over, the garden isn’t quite planted, and the days haven’t quite shifted into their next rhythm. We’re standing in the tension of almost, waiting for all the things we’ve worked toward to finally arrive.
While we wait, we find little things to tide us over.
For me, that often looks like reading a series alongside my best friend, trading thoughts and reactions as we work our way through the same fictional world. There’s something comforting about having a story to return to at the end of a long day, especially when someone else is wandering through it with you. It gives the waiting a little shape and gives us something to look forward to that doesn’t require a giant amount of energy or a perfectly cleared schedule.
It can also look like binge-watching a show that lets my brain step out of the noise for a while. Not everything that grounds us has to be impressive or productive. Sometimes the thing that keeps us steady is a familiar storyline, a favorite character, or the simple relief of letting someone else’s drama take center stage for an hour instead of our own.
Other times, it looks like planning small projects that feel manageable rather than overwhelming. Not the kind that requires seventeen steps, three trips to town, and a version of myself with far more energy than I currently possess, but the small things that still offer a sense of progress. A corner to clean up, a chapter to write, a few plants to get in the ground, or a little creative idea that can actually be finished. There’s a quiet kind of pride in completing something small when so many bigger things are still hanging in the air.
Those little things don’t erase the tension of waiting, but they do soften it. They remind us that progress can happen in small pieces, rest can be found in ordinary places, and joy doesn’t always wait until everything is finished and settled before it shows up.
Maybe that’s what carries us through the almost-there seasons: the people who share the waiting with us, the stories that give us somewhere to rest, and the small, attainable things that remind us we’re still moving forward.