August brings transitions. My nose can smell Autumn in the air. It may be something the leaves give off, and the gentle winds carry it to me. How ever it arrives, it signals a time to slow down. I move from the super productivity drive of June and early July, into Supreme Molasses Mode.
I do not flow as fast, motivate as fast, nor rise to any need as fast. I feel ready to sit, ready to watch sunsets, ready to wonder at the growing insect population and ready to read. Even if there are many things still on my do list, as there are, or many things one might DO in the present moment, I find little inkling to do them.
My garden's aesthetic does, as a result, suffer ~ weeds grow faster than a caterpillar eats. Snails make patterns in my collards that I try to read like tea leaves. I don't mind though; unless it truly matters, I just move my chair over, and give the growing plants the space they desireto thrive in the hot sun.
It is also, alas, the end of harvesting of some of my favorite desserts ~ wild raspberries! They become a rare treat now. I did just spy one this morning which melted in my mouth into divine elixir. Ahhhh.
The focus of my daily herb gathering also shifts: Elderflowers finished long ago, the St john'swort produces only a few flowers that I leave for the bees' dining, and most yarrow plants are starting to turn brown after the successful flowering season winds down. Well, I remind myself, there Are other gifts to enjoy; no need to gaze wistfully at the passing of the seasons ~ Such a human trait to resist change, and resist adjusting to the new bounty that the present moment offers; and instead to get stuck in a groove of past patterning, so well rutted that it we find it difficult to move with the abundant now. Well, I acknowledge the gifts of the past, and remind myself of the present ~ After all, calendula is just coming into stride, sunflowers, boneset and blue vervain also rise bountifully above the fray of weeds.
Even in my slower pace, I do have a moment of worry. What if I didn't collect enough for my medicine chest? Do I have enough for the needs of winter chills and colds alike? I ask. myself that every year.... Genetic fears die hard, and resulting panic can momentarily overcome even the deepest of August's inertia.
As I write, trying to describe this August pace, I wondered about possible synonyms for the slowness I feel. My search resulted in words that offer only negative connotations- "laziness," "indolence," "apathy," even "decreased mental acuity."
Of course, a culture that does not reward its members for pausing, or resting or getting adequate sleep, of course it does not applaud slowing down to the pace of August. It would not acknowledge the rewards of pausing when gardens can tend for themselves, winds slow to a quiet touch, insects drone one to drowsiness and heat requires welcome siestas.
I want a language that celebrates this time, that celebrates rest, and renewal and rebirth. I want language that opens to the possibilities inherent in pausing and listening and inherent in unwinding and relaxing. Language that celebrates bounty and beauty with slow appreciation. What new words can I give to this pace? How about the pace of fecundity? The flow of an eddy, the current of snail? How about the breath of rest, the smile of appreciation? How about deep rest?
That is the natural pace of my August, watching, listening and wondering.
Oh, right, I have some harvesting I ought to do... I will get to it eventually
Perhaps when the eddy circles back around toward that goal. For now, I want to rest a little more. How are you feeling this August? Are there new words you can ascribe to your senses and the receiving of the bounteous now? I would love to hear.
