My Hot Bittersweet Summer
This time you're ready.
I am ready for a change, but maybe change is actually ready for me. I won’t fight it. No, no, I’ll tip my hat as we eye each other down the path in a stand off of sorts. I’ll dig my foot into the ground. Feel the grit beneath my sole, gaze forward through the heat.
Change is an inkling and a deep pit in my stomach. Change is both a hunch and the last straw. Change lives low within my belly and its whisper crawls up my throat and worms into my ear. Change says the time is now to step forward, the time is now to look. Look at what you refuse to see.
I start by reaching for the rawness of my heart and mind. I free it from my body, feel the weight balanced between fingertips. I put the rawness down and into ink & paper. Raw feelings seep through pages of lists and maps and questions and goodness, dear friend, how did I not realize until now just how heavy the weight is of everything I’ve been carrying on my own?
My rawness is truthful. It tells a story of desire. My rawness maps out all that I want in this life. I can see where I am blocked by fear and doubt. My rawness is a tangle of static strands that I gently rake my fingers through, working over each knot in a story that no longer serves me. My heart and mind cannot unknow that something I am doing every day is killing my spirit and resolve. Something I am doing is stealing away my time and my joy.
And I ask you dear friend, if I were to love myself, truly love myself, how could I ever turn away from what my heart and mind has laid out across this page, across this screen, all over this desk?
Change asks me if I am willing to cram the rawness back inside me, willing to place it on a shelf or sweep it into a corner that only knows of my despair? Change asks if I am willing to kill, willing to steal, willing to lie to myself about all the somethings.
With each no, no, no, I find myself directly on a path. It’s as if I am in a dream and I can’t quite recall how I got here. Suddenly change and I are closer than before. I realize I have missed my first steps, missed the moment I decided to move, missed the fear and the doubt of how to get here. I’m on this path. I’m doing this and I simply cannot turn back.
I am ready to try. Other times were not successful but if I’m being honest, dear friend, the other times I wasn’t being serious. No, no, all the other times I tried I was afraid of greeting change or trying to walk down a path that wasn’t mine to travel.
This time I am ready, but it’s not because it is time. No, no, dear friend, for I realize now is definitely not my time, at least, not in the way I was hoping for or counting on or wishing through the sky. This time I am ready because doing otherwise would simply mean that I have chosen to give up. And I ask you, dear friend, if I were to love myself, truly love myself, how could I ever turn away from the path my heart and mind has laid out before me?
I misread a headline in the newspaper. I thought it read “a curiosity inspection” but really it was a cursory inspection. In a way I suppose that’s what I’m always doing here.
aes·thete
/ˈesˌTHēt/
noun
noun: aesthete; plural noun: aesthetes; noun: esthete; plural noun: esthetes
a person who has or affects to have a special appreciation of art and beauty. "Paris became home to a heady mix of radical thinkers, artists, and aesthetes from all corners of the globe."
“I want both,” she said assertively. “I want it all.”
His lips curled upwards slowly. “You’ll get it.”
— a love song for ricki wilde by tia williams
It’s August again. A fever of release and loose ends and settling. We made it to August and I am once again reminded of consistency and returns. I arm myself with all my senses and make my way through the heat by noticing.
My eyes glide over rolling mountainsides and bleached rays and the stuttering jolt of a train. I see sun kissed furniture and empty rooms with a severe sloping angle. I am assaulted by the humidity and the heat. I am comforted by soft texture and colors of artwork hanging in my friend’s community shop. I look up at a deep blue sky, notice the green treetops around my cottage home. Vermont, dear friend, we cannot forget about Vermont, with her lush green pastures and manicured lawns patched together with the wilderness. See the mountains and the mist. I begin to feel the familiar prickle behind my eyes as small towns roll away in the rearview mirror.
I savor every morsel August has to bring. The crisp crunch of a loaded nacho coupled with the tang of a margarita and the sharp punch of its salted rim. I witness the delight of being in union with my beloveds as they experience a food they often hunger for. I sample a few ranch sauces that make me miss Oklahoma with a fleeting ache. I love how a simple bite of food can instantly transport you to a different time and place, how it brings back the small moments from the past. I have the delightful experience of thousands of coca-cola bubbles dancing across my tongue and the sugary munch of childhood dirt loaded with gummy worms and crumbles. There’s a night of fragrant curries and spicy chickpeas and mild spinach too. One lick of a maple crunch ice cream confirms, yes, yes, this is too powerful for my midwest buds. But dear friend, to witness the delight of my family coming home to a food they love and lost too! There’s fresh lobster with buttered buns and mayo and the satisfying pop of a ginger-ale can. I try a ham & cheese croissant with delightful culinary twists, relish in the smattering of everything bagel seasoning and sprigs of dill. A hot guava empanada lives rent free within my soul. Beef jerky road side research with hints of hickory and pungent cheese from a farm. Hot pizza drowning in parmesan and oregano is a love language all on its own.
We made it to August again. This month is all armpits and deodorant and sunscreen. There’s the welcoming smell of an unfamiliar home mixed with wood and soot. The smell of eucalyptus in a sauna and hot doggy breath. Salon shop chemical dyes and fragrant shampoos. Candle wax, roasted salmon, maple, and charcoal.
I love every moment of cold water hugging my skin. The cautious walk over slick moss rocks. The return to childhood in stretching and star fishing, suspended in water and laughter. There’s a symphony of chattering teeth. This summer I experienced my first cold plunge. I sink my body into 44 degrees, feel the absence of the summertime sun. Submerged in the ice-cold water, I clasp my hands and sing softly to Remi Wolf. I marvel in lasting over six minutes. In that cold water I am starkly aware of being alive and of having a body. I feel all the gushy bloody things pumping and moving just below my pimpled goose flesh. My awareness verges on being too much, so I clasp my hands tighter and let the music wash over me.
The music, dear reader, the music! Summertime is a lesson on Charli XCX, Chappell Roan, Sabrina Carpenter, and JoJo Siwa. It is belting out Celine Dion, 90s hits and forgotten country tunes. Kid Rock in the summer is a staple, always. I tune in to Adrianne Lenker and podcasts. I make a playlist about houses. I check out CDS from the library of old country yodeling tunes. I smile to songs from Johnny Cash and June Carter and other outlaws with strong names. I can’t leave out the flirtation of 70s rock and disco. My ears adore the sound of gossip from my community, the gushes of laughter from my friends, and wince at a sudden piercing bark.
This is my hot bittersweet summer. It is about change and an uncharted path. The important conversations that happen while standing up and the figuring out of how to keep putting a foot in front of the other. My hot bittersweet summer is about noticing and curiosities, listening and savoring. Drops in the bucket for a promise of being full. Romance found within the heat. A bittersweet sendoff to the hot season that led me and you right here, to right now. This time I know we are ready.