Where Did August Go?

Aligning with the turn of the seasons

This morning, I noticed as I made breakfast that the tide is slowly getting higher—beach slowly covering its summer flesh, a few inches at time. By midwinter, it will all be hidden at high tide, waves rushing all the way the dunes.

The seastacks nearby

Where did August go? Where did the summer go? As I looked outside, I tried to think of what I did with August—I wasn’t really working. I didn’t have any family here. I didn’t go anywhere, well, except for that long, one day round trip to Portland to pick up my husband’s car. One challenge of living in such a rural place is the fact that we both own cars that need service by specialists, and they are in Portland, five hours away. 

Anyway. I’m a born diarist, so in addition to journaling almost every day, I keep a one-paragraph log of the events of the day. (I also log the amount of time I write, how many words or pages of revisions, to show you how far this goes.)

When I consulted the daily events log, I see there was actually quite a lot going on in August. A few hikes with my husband. A memorable open house for a local artist¹ down on the Rogue River, filled with a delightful mix of people and lots of art and a tremendous garden over which I asked dozens of questions. That was a great day. We ended up in Brookings for dinner, one of the places we stopped on our honeymoon three years ago, and pretty much the place that made my husband realize we needed to move here or I would pine for the sea forever. 

Some friends came to visit, and I we talked for three days straight. Friendships forged in sobriety, like these, tend to eschew surface chatter and plunge right into the meat of everything. The result was a deeply nourishing stretch of days, and I can’t wait to see them all again. ²

I read a lot in August, some weeks almost a book a day, as if I were fourteen again and had nothing else to do. My assistant made a graphic of some of the titles for social media. Since then, I’ve also read a few more I really loved, including the surprising and wonderful Sipsworth by Simon Van Booy, and a clever time shift book, Remember Me Tomorrow, by Farah Heron, a book that made me so hungry I had to make some peanut noodles.

 A lot of days in my daily log have simple words—puttered in the garden. Puttered in the house. Did laundry and towels. Puttering is my rest mode. Tidying and rearranging, putting things away. The very mundanity of it eases me somehow. Life feels calm and bearable if the dishes are put away and the sinks are clean. For some reason, I really love putting freshly laundered clothes away. 

It turns out August was just what August should be, full of long warm days and walks and being outside in the sunshine and eating good food. 

In a few days, my travel season will begin—first I’m going to Ireland with my sisters, then to Italy for a women’s retreat in Tuscany. In between, I’ll be home for two weeks, just enough time to finish the first round of revisions on the book for next summer.

I’ll be on planes a lot, from the west coast to Europe and back, then again. Long flights, some of them, but there’s something very restful about flying sometimes. Nothing to do but just be in transition, read a book, watch a movie, doze, contemplate. I haven’t been anywhere since last February, when I spent three weeks with my granddaughters in a rental house in Wyoming. Travel does more to renew my creative spirit than any other single thing, and I’m ready.

When I return, the summer will be fully tucked away, and my well will be full, and I will turn toward writing again on rainy days, dashing out for walks on the beach when the winds slow for a little while. Cozy. Creative. Soup weather. 

How was your August? What have you been reading? Do you find pleasure in puttering?

1. Morgan Johnson, who does some very beautiful things with light and home that I love.

2. I gave up drinking during the pandemic for many reasons, and count it one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.