As a December baby I have been jealous of everyones backyard summer birthdays. I bristle at friends born in June/July/August that they “don’t want to do anything for their birthday”. Selfish, I think. To have perfect weather for al fresco dining in a park or patio of your choosing. While the rest of us are siloed to get creative and try to entice your friends to come out in the first snow storms of the winter “Its not that bad if you wear leggings over your tights under your dress”. Going to the club in your down filled puffer has never been that cute but southern Ontario girlies make it work.
I have never been summers number one fan, and that is ,unfairly, out of spite. To take up arms against summer in defense of the December baby.
I find myself uninspired to do anything but sit on the couch and look at my phone. It to warm to go out side and the dog warming my already sweating feet agrees. I plan for September and November, big news for January and March. There is part of me that wants summer to just be over already so I can get back to the work I plan. But a larger part of me that wants summer to never end. If summer is for melting then how do I stick the landing back to form?
Returning from camp each year I’d unpack my trunk and realize I had weeks left of summer I could count on one hand. As August approaches I get nervous that I haven’t swam in enough rivers yet, waterfalls haven’t been hiked and what am I to do with all the park pilates I have yet to attend.
I don’t mean to write this dispatch to you today about weather or about time (again). But if I were to boil down the existential spiral we all fall down into constantly. Its the friction of never enjoying exactly where we are at. A practise I think writing gets me close to. The metaverse of realities that are ever present in a given moment. How will I look back at this time? Am I enjoying it enough? Have I experiance enough life in this moment to make it worth it? Am I wasting it? Or can time be wasted at all?
The pressure to enjoy summer feels like a self fuffling prophecy of disappointment. Augusts cool nights promise us back to school supply shopping and the stomache turning sensation and anxiety of “who is my teacher gonna be next year” feels ever present even at the age of 28. I ask if that will ever go away but I cannot divorce the opportunity to buy a new pen.
All this to say is – my sabbatical is going great. I have written more than I thought and not done enough and I think this is exactly where I am supposed to be. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably not.
I will be releasing current drafts of essays to paid subscribers throughout the summer. Having folks pay for access to my art allows me to show up and feel SO SAFE to be seen knowing the tender pieces of my heart are not being cast into random corners of the internet but into inboxes that can hold me + in + ourselves together. 💕
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Findings 🗺️
Gabrielles workshop for Applying For Fellowships & Residencies
Toronto friends! Lisa’s poetry in the park is probably happening in a park near you!
said fall plans
very obsessed with this mango ice cream recipe that is good for melting on the couch with
big love
phoebe
so relatable! January baby here and I have often considered switching my birthday celebrations to July. Thanks for these reflections, always nice to hear I’m not alone in my conflicted Summer feelings.