Oh, friends! I have neglected you all for far too long, and quite frankly I have no excuse, save for a warm drowsiness that has settled upon my shoulders these last two months of summer.
If I were a poet, these are the poems I would have written in July and August: farmer’s market figs on homemade bread. Honey dripping down my fingers. A warm cup of coffee. The beginning of things and also the end of them. Relishing in a cocoon of nostalgia just long enough before it becomes a hollow, lonely place. Stretching in the sunlight. Remembering how much I used to love a song, and letting it stay in a heart I grew out of. Feeling homesick for together. Looking up. Being still, being silent.
I can not believe I am saying this, but I am looking forward to fall. It’s a betrayal I do not know how to reckon with. In the mornings before work, after a swim or walk or what-have-you, I sit on my front porch with my thoughts and my God. The air has begun to turn chilly, and despite everything I know about myself, I sort of enjoy it. I love to see the neighborhood kids waiting for the school bus. My heart aches for them; how lucky they are, how unaware of this good fortune they are. I wish I could run down the street and tell them, but I doubt they would believe me. But gosh, elementary school. I miss it fiercely.
I have had an incredibly soft and tender summer. It has been homegrown in the most colorful way. My hands keep a record of it all. There are a few beloved burns from baking bread, a practice I find so holy. Sourdough has become woven into my routine, and I am better for it. See also, the remnants of dirt under my fingernails from tending to the garden. I am still waiting earnestly for the tomatoes to turn red, praying for rain and sunlight in equal measure. I’ve got a myriad of little cuts as well— from slicing an avocado in a rogue, wild way; paper cuts, too, if you can believe it. I can’t help but think of Little Women; how Meg was so anxious to keep her hands pure and beautiful, how Amy was so aggrieved by Laurie’s idleness being made visible by his unblemished fingerprints.
I love the way my hands have been changed by this summer. I consider all the scars as evidence— further proof of the fruitfulness I feel lucky to reap and enjoy. If I were given to more sentimental prose, I’d have to make a metaphor out of it all. I want to tell the truth, though. It’s been so lovely and enriching I don’t believe I need to embellish or adorn it with anything else. I am content with my accessories as they are: bandaids and fresh figs and a single zinnia. She is alone, not lonely.
Anyway, I am writing this on August 31st, which means it is September tomorrow. I am again amazed to find how much my heart can hold. I did not know it was possible to stretch the seat of my emotions so wide! I am so often acquainted with an overwhelming homesickness for someplace/one/thing that is completely indescribable. And yet, there are also these moments— in my garden, preparing bread, drinking a warm cup of coffee— where I love my life so fiercely, I can’t imagine how I got to be so lucky.
This feels like a good place to end. Was this anything at all? Whatever it was, I do hope my ramblings find you well and warm <3
Cheers!
