Every year the round of seasons patiently waits for me to give attention to the same lessons over and over. Often I look back with something like a lament: when will I learn? Well, deep learning that sticks with you is a slow process. At least it is for me.

And sometimes, year to year, there has been some small, tangible shift.

Last year, I wrote (from a state of mind somewhere between aspiration and desperation) about what I call the consolations of August —

—and here I am again in the same difficult house, the same difficult fold of land, the same oppressive heat, the same feeling of exile from my loved places that is hard to shake. And yet something is different. The other day I wrote:

I would like to be a person who relishes / the long afternoon of August.

And this year I am actually trying to become that. I can’t change myself, exactly. But I can ask for change.

This last week, we’ve been leaving the windows open if the outside temp stays under about 85F. It gets hot inside, yes. But I get the breeze when it decides to shiver the cherry leaves, and the sounds of juvenile crows harrassing their parents, and mobs of bushtits flashing through the garden, and the strange, occasional phenomenon of heavy purple air and a little August rain.

I am a person who loves to have the windows open, but I have always been assiduous about shutting them against heat. And I’ve spent my high summers feeling trapped indoors, restless and in pain. This week, I’ve been warmer than I like to be, but I haven’t felt trapped.

This week also, I spent a late afternoon with an acquaintance I haven’t seen in ten years. We had sparkling wine in the garden of the lovely old house she’s living in, and a wonderful, wandering conversation. It was humid, and 80-something degrees—which for me is wiltingly hot, particularly because my adopted city of Portland has none of the robust and refreshing ocean breeze that makes that same temperature on my native coastal plain a delight. I sat in a shady green corner wearing a light cotton caftan, and I still felt sticky.

And also, five minutes in, I realized I wasn’t wishing for a cooler season or lighter air or less sun. I watched the big old oaks that line the main road toss their pointed leaves in a breeze leaping off the river. I watched dahlias dip, and kids and adults play and work in the community garden next door. I sipped slowly, and listened slowly, and enjoyed my companion and the long, unscheduled afternoon we had given each other.

What I felt in that moment was a resonant sense of abundance. Fullness. Deep, unhurried enjoyment. A feeling I’ve heard people describe in the context of high summer my whole life, and definitely not one I’m used to in this season. Even now I catch myself thinking, But I hate August. How can I be happy?

Happiness is a thing of fragments, but many fragments, pretty often, and good ones. I can’t recall the whole poem, but the line that pokes me mischievously right now is one of Mary Oliver’s: “Joy is not made to be a crumb.” Apparently, August is a whole cake! Maybe not my favorite flavor, but interesting. Well worth savoring.

You can hear words for a long time, and know they are for you, but not know yet how to invite them to actually change your life. It’s a relief to think I might finally be ready to accept some joy cake.

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Book update: Serpentine is getting her final art and typesetting adjustments, and will go to the printer this month as planned. If you missed the crowdfunding campaign and want to order a copy, that option will be available soon!