I Don’t Trust August

I Don’t Trust August

I’ve always been suspicious of August. In the grip of a steely January chill, the promise of August is always one of beaches, cookouts, and fresh mowed grass. It’s the mental masquerade that allows us to lump July and August together as one hazy, nebulous memory of summer; the promise of everything that is not January.

It’s when we enter into August, however, that we are called to remember the darker half of the year; the slumber of the seasons. June’s gentle green tendrils had apexed with the jungle like foliage of July, only to decline. So it goes, when as the seasonal cycle of youth has passed that we are left with the yellowing age of August. Fields of wheatgrass raise their golden heads to the sun; still potent, but taking on a more earthward slant. Odd maple leaves turn red; seemingly off cue. We make excuses for nature. We reason that a particular tree is not well or that the branch must have been damaged in the winds of a thunderstorm. What we know deeper down is what we have known throughout the ages; time is passing. We pass these signs with a flippant air; a red leaf, the presence of goldenrod, a gray hair; in a post modern denial of nature’s clock that still tugs at the soul.

August is a juxtaposition of meanings, as the oppressive heat and humidity reminds us to labor and the occasional dry chill reminds us to gather; to prepare. It is a month that causes us to praise the virtues of air conditioning while questioning the integrity of the weather stripping all at once. It is our nod to our more primitive selves; the knowledge that beyond the computer and cell phone, we are part of the land and the cycle of seasons which govern it.