The days are hotter, and I feel myself slowing.
I wonder if the blazing temperatures of late summer are intended to prepare us for the hibernation of winter. Bright, restless days leading to the craving of dark, frigid evenings—an unchallenged and often shared excuse to stay inside. Even so, I'm not sure how I feel about the talk of autumn already creeping into conversations.
Having grown up in a hotter climate, even when I lived in one of the best climates on Earth, I came to notice a background longing for the familiarity of ruthless sun and humidity. And, of course, my insatiable love for summer thunderstorms. Autumn marks an end to all of that. Somewhat a relief, mostly a reminder of the constant forward march of the seasons.
Maybe I will be ready this year for the downhill glide into December. Maybe I won't think of it as slipping, but sailing. With winds racing past, and my arms outstretched in gratitude for another year lived.
As I've been painting the past few weeks, I've felt myself slowing.
Dragging my feet in the dirt of the year's marching path.
Dragging my paintbrush in the paint of a palette that's never empty.
Cicadas sing night and day ceremoniously.
And I sit quiet, surrounded by symphony in my studio.
Next week, I will be traveling to the coast! The ocean is a longtime friend of mine, and I look forward to returning to the familiar conversation. I can't wait for the inspiration that will inevitably come with it.
That has been my week and summer in summary, though. Until next time.
— M.E.