The Clock of August
In the yard this morning |
Let’s face it, August
is heavy with expectation. We’re all thinking about what’s to come, all the
while larding our calendars with things to do before the golden days of autumn
settle in, before the evenings are too cold to sit outside, before the early mornings
are perceptibly darker. Our bodies swing
between hurried preparation and a kind of manic relaxation: One more vacation, one more weekend getaway, one
more long hike, one more fourteener before bad weather and back to school. My Facebook feed has been one non-stop
pleasure-fest, so full of friends’ exploits and accomplishments that next
year, I’m banning all beach photos. You
think they’d have an app for that.
Plainly put: August is a ticking clock.
Our Giant Sunflower |
For me, it’s been
rather a time bomb. I woke up this morning realizing I’ve washed up on the
shore of summer feeling as if I’ve missed it. There have been no vacations this
year, no camping, no Persieds, not even one hike, though Greg and I managed a few bike rides.
I’ve barely set foot in the garden.
Instead, I’ve merely glanced at it from my office, an 8x10 space where I
sit and write for four, six, eight, or, as on one fevered day, thirteen hours. And
while it’s true that writing every single day is the dream of a life I’ve long
had, the bubble popped this morning on its romance. This summer, my artistic life has obliterated
all else.
The Glory herself |
Of course it’s my own
damn fault. In some ways, it’s been
easier to sit at my desk as an excuse to escape the string of 90 degree days appearing more often than not since the beginning of June. But that’s
not the whole story: I’m nothing if not
a toiler and a doer and, whether rocket fast (kitchen prep, cleaning, weeding, chores)
or slow and plodding (writing and writing and writing), I manage a sturdy, cement-like
focus, letting all else—pleasure, anyone?—fall away.
So I’ve arrived on the
eve of September realizing I need to take not only a breath, but a sledge hammer to all
this concentration. It began this morning, when I broke routine (coffee, journal, work on book) and stepped outside
before 8am for the first time all summer.
A fat morning glory
yawned open against the garage and I plucked three strawberries and a handful of
beets. Lemon basil bolts from neglect, but the vegetable garden is thick
with the promise of tomato and peppers. My monster sunflower, pregnant with blossoms, towers
fifteen feet in the air and the rosehips are fat as raspberries. Taking it all in, I resist the urge to plot and plan.
This holiday weekend,
though it makes me breathless, I vow to take all
three days off from writing. Plans? I have a few which include poetry and Greg and hammock time, or perhaps a bike ride to the Farmer's Market along with a drive up to the hills. Whatever it is, no matter how much fun or spectacular or beautiful, I will
not be posting the pictures on Facebook.
Beets |
I look forward to your Winter Solstice blog. My favorite time of the season, and the announcement of the new year.
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