Are there any two months more different than August and September?
August–the height of summer, or so it seems. The crepe myrtles are in bloom, the trees lush with foliage. But if you look closer, you can see a faint fall blush starting to spread among the leaves, as though they have become embarrassed by the excesses of midsummer. And on occasion the breeze carries a slight chill, the harbinger of winter. Like the waves on the beach, September starts to lap up on August, bringing the early signs of fall and carrying back with it bits of sand, each grain a disjointed memory of summer–a disjointed memory of my youth. The grains swirl and mingle in the vast ocean of the life I’ve lived.
I look back on the summer, remembering life bursting through, nature charging ahead with abandon. Nostalgic, I review the moments that stand out in my memory. Aware that someday soon I will sit contemplating, assessing my life. The cool breeze of September wafts through my thoughts. I shake it off and return to August, to reflections on the summer now passing.
I remember the thrill and promise of newly birthed nestlings clamoring for food.
Of the lovely semi-sacred moments when a creature landed on my out-stretched hand, pausing for a photo.
Of the flowers, bloomed and gone with no existential angst about their fleeting existence.
Or, of the insignificant snail crawling slowly through its life carrying the beautiful mystery of Fibonacci on its back.
The summer has been lush and vibrant; full of beauty and wonder. The spiders have matured, their webs now apparent in the lowering late summer light. They, like me, are preparing for the closing of the year.
My co-author and I look forward fondly to the promise of quiet days by the fire, when moments for contemplation are not stolen… not tinged with the guilt of summer’s “I really should be outside…”.