August 3
Cicadas’ melodies (or what I presume are cicadas) remind me always that we are in the heart of summer. The hotter the days the louder the sound, which is not unusual. Their decibels increase as the weather warms up. And we have had some intensely hot days.
I stubbornly sit in my nook on the front porch to observe, to read, to study and research, to write, because I work best in the fresh air, surrounded by the birds and flowers and breeze. Our drought is over; we have had rain every afternoon, if not a full day, for the last couple weeks. The heat and humidity have forced me inside despite my sitting still, in the shade, yet unable to control the perspiration (or “glow” as we women refer to it) from creeping into the body and exiting in the most unattractive way.
Despite the sounds above my head from passing planes and the occasional helicopter, or a neighbor’s leaf blower, I can focus on the work at hand, imagining and creating. But the insufferable heat and humidity win every time and I am driven inside when the breeze remains silent.
My calendula—an array of orange and yellow and burgundy—remain strong and full, as well as my zinnias, whether purposefully planted or not, as they all spread throughout my wild wildflower garden. The cosmos love the sunshine and are morphing into tall plants of lilac, burgundy and white. My wild petunia, a native plant, began sprouting its soft purple flowers. The hummingbirds, butterflies, goldfinches, sparrows, and bees comingle to enjoy the plentiful nectar.
Sitting outside is distracting, but it is a pleasant distraction. I think when we create, whether it is growing our garden, writing our poetry and stories, or painting, we should enjoy our hard work. If we cannot step back and revel in our creations, what is the point? And so I often pause and look over my flowers; study the colors; watch the insects and birds flying about, and relish in the beauty before me.
Much like when we reach the end of our first draft in our writing and we sit back, smile, and take a deep breath and think we deserve a moment to figuratively pat ourselves on the back. Maybe enjoy a glass of celebratory wine.
The work never stops in beautifying our garden or polishing our sentences or touching up our lines in our painting, but the most difficult work, I believe, is appreciating what we can and especially finding satisfaction in the imperfect results.
