Negative split

The afternoon light hits the field with golden hues. Catbirds, sparrows, robins and warblers trill and flit between trees surrounding the property's perimeter. A single prop plane cuts a line towards the airport below wispy clouds washing the cornflower blue sky white with swaths and swirls of different densities. Come nightfall, lightning bugs will flicker as stars loom above in the indigo darkness, holding court with a brazen waxing crescent moon.

A couple of mornings ago, Harry and I woke early to an unexpected outdoor temperature of 54 degrees. Wearing sweatshirts, sweatpants and leggings, we climbed into the car for his 7am flight lesson at Katama airfield. I could see my breath in the car as we drove east. It didn't feel like August, when steamy dog days and the first harvest festival of Luhnasadh mark the height of summer. Instead, it felt like the weather of crispy October, when cheeks are red from the outdoor's windy gusts, the hayfields are cut and the delights of pumpkin and apple harvests balance out the joy with the dying daylight. I know the heat will be back. Just days ago it was hard to move in the thick humidity that wrapped around you like the lead blanket you wear at the dentist's office for x-rays. Dips in Icehouse Pond and Lambert's Cove were necessary. We even turned the a/c on.

And here we are, in the waning. When delights of summer can only be reclaimed in snapshots, be it in your mind's eye or on your phone. The hourly ringing of the church bell, which starts at 7am. Walking with Elsa to work at 7a. Morning pages on the porch with Margo. Runs up Middle Road. Driving Harry to his job manning pups, Tessa and Caymus. The tangy aroma of Dave's crockpot chuck beef concoction cooking overnight. Flowers, flowers everywhere. Writing in Mary Green cottage. A French 75 for me and a martini for Dave at sunset in Granny Sue's coup glasses. Harry and Dave's bike rides between West Tisbury and Edgartown. Elsa's Penn State gear arriving in the mail every other day. Friends who come to visit, getting a taste of it all.

At last night's dinner I confessed a growing sadness. After my "Cheers to family dinners!" (minus Hugh), I stated that the countdown has begun. Do I alone witness the petals falling off the bloom? I'm propelled to perform the not-yet-done's before we leave, as well as reminding myself to savor what has already been relished. I forgive what was put aside to accomplish the flow of summer, or at least I try. In this dance of abundance, I can't help but smile and ache, consumed by togetherness, beauty and reverence.

And time clicks on, just like the Carolina wren's sing songy notes work together in a musical circle the hands of the clock move around the dial. We've hit the negative split of summer, recognizing that the beginning half took time to warm up, moved slowly, and, now, the second half comes, or third quarter, and the minutes, hours and days go so much faster. It feels like you're running downhill and you kinda wish you could move the finish line.

I know a number of you can relate, as first borns are soon off to college for the first time and other children may be heading back to boarding school. You're dreading that there will be less heads at the dinner table. I bet you understand this wish for slo-mo vs. time lapse living. The pull of being present in the moment and making mental packing lists. Or perhaps, some of you prefer the bustle of fall to the lazing of summer, looking forward to the days when full-on sweater weather arrives and cool air sparks your vitality. Either way, I invite you to start picking some tall, waving strands of your summer, putting them under the sunshine to dry out so you may pluck the grains and keep them for another season.

As much as leaving Martha's Vineyard in less that two weeks feels like a too early ending, I'm excited to plant seeds in the soil on St. Thomas come September. But, I don't want to wish away now to get organized for then. Instead, I will practice being in the moment, watching morning doves shake and splash in the birdbath, tiny ruby-throated hummingbirds drink the sweet hibiscus water from the feeder and monarch butterflies float above and land along the milkweed. I'll try to stay awake for movie night; take deep breaths, inhaling the scent of sun stoked grass, as I hang the laundry for the 100th time on the clothesline; I'll reach for Elsa's or Harry's hands as we walk to Alley's General Store for the milk I will inevitably forget to buy at Cronigs. I may finish the 1000 piece puzzle strewn on the living room table, with Dave and Elsa's help. I might get halfway through editing the first draft of my manuscript. I could run the 10 mile route to Chilmark and back. With whatever may come, I'm not going to put my foot on the pedal, but see how long I can coast on the coattails of this sublime summer ease.

Until we meet again, enjoy the dog days, the downhill slide, and may your last minute yes's keep your summer joy alive.

Leaning into love & lightheartedness,

St. Sunshine