August aspirations

Welcome to August folks!

I am an August worshiper, forever and always, while being simultaneously terrified of the change it always remembers to deliver. Last year brought the biggest changes of my life, and with those changes, the most security in myself and my own body I had ever felt. For the first time since I was a young child, I chose to be authentically myself without resenting the bones that held me, the skin that shielded me from the grass and dirt I rolled in. I looked in less mirrors and looked into the eyes of the people who I loved, trying to see myself the way they did. I did not cover my mouth when I laughed to cover my imperfect teeth or wrinkled smile, but I did stop myself from crying more times than I could count.

I lived on my own for the first time, with roommates for the first time, and met friends who made Portland winters bearable, who I could get up with during the first snow of the year and dance with outside brick dorm buildings. I celebrated my accomplishments, and once in a while, I yelled at myself for not moving quickly enough. I put on my best and bravest face when speaking to people back home, and I used the phone more frequently than FaceTime because a quivering voice was barely noticeable, but smeared makeup and sunburnt cheeks were difficult to hide. I stole bell peppers from the dining hall, sweat more than I ever have at silent disco with my friends, skipped orientation events to lay in the grass with someone I had met the day before who I already knew would be a part of my life for years, and watched a wonderful man named Jacob smoke out of a bong while playing the banjo with my roommates. The four of us made bowtie pasta together, and salad with ingredients from the dining hall, beginning the tradition of roommate dinner, every Wednesday, (mostly) without fail. A student died on the first day of school, and I cried for days, but only when I was alone. I told my roommates, and we went to sleep earlier than usual. I woke up in September, and walked to the chapel before breakfast. I lit a candle, and I resented whatever higher power let him go so soon. 

This August, I flew home from Colorado. The next day, I drove to Malibu with my closest friends from home. We sang and slept and ate and stopped at gas stations and took off our shoes. We saw Taylor Swift live in concert and celebrated Sofia’s birthday, we ate breakfast on the beach and grilled cheese on the patio overlooking the ocean. We swam and ate popcorn in the pool, rode waves in the ocean until I inhaled so much saltwater, I felt like I was dying. We tracked sand through one of the most beautiful homes I have ever stayed in, and showered together, passing around the soap. On the drive home, we slept more, and talked about how little time we had left together, all four of us. A week or so, to be precise. We cried a little and slept until we felt like laughing again, and tried to forget how soon we were leaving the safety net we so heavily rely on, created by our four bodies and souls.

We went home and agreed to spend time together before the end of this summer. We talked about the possibility of not coming home for Thanksgiving. I spent the next two days sleeping, sick, and packing slowly. I got a night light this year because I still can’t sleep alone in complete darkness, and I’m living alone for a couple of weeks. I packed up notes and pictures from my friends and family, to remind myself that their physical absence does not resemble the familiarity and closeness of our hearts and souls. I thought about doing a load of laundry, but it never happened. I went to my old therapist for the first time in a year. She told me that even though I didn’t feel like writing, because I felt like I didn’t have anything relevant to say or because I couldn’t feel as deeply as of late, was not a good enough excuse to stop all together. She reminded me that it has to be routine, and I promised her I would write today. I told her how numb I had been lately, and she asked if there were any benefits to this. I told her no, that I missed crying and not feeling like I was faking it. She nodded and asked how my parents were doing. I walked home in the 98 degree weather and got a blister on my heel, and I stopped and sat in the grass that I sat with him on that one day because I wanted to feel something. I was reminded that I have healed, but not without scars. I saw them under the sun, and for the first time, I embraced them instead of rejecting them. I would not be nearly as strong as I am today, or know what I did, if it weren’t through what I went through, the people I knew. I kissed the grass before standing up and walking back home, by the shop I used to work at and the school I used to go to and the grocery store I buy eggs and onions and ice cream and flashcards at.

We are one week into August, and I am so excited to see the people who made me who I am, who allowed me to distinguish this summer’s August from the last one. I am excited to be one with my second home again, and to walk around in the rain without an umbrella or a raincoat. August is an embrace, even if it’s a bit too tight sometimes. It becomes more difficult when August lets go, so I won’t wish for it to go away just yet. I would like August to linger, for as long as it may.    

My August recs: Sounds Like A Cult (a podcast, so interesting and entertaining I have been obsessed), Courtney Barnett’s music, decluttering, using unconventional, recycled items to hold pens/pencils (empty pill bottles, mugs, aluminum cans), breaks from social media, writing by hand, looking at baby pictures, homemade drinks, cooking with friends. Borrowing a tee shirt and never giving it back. Painting your nails and then scratching them off. Naps in the back of cars, Glossier’s new fig lip balm, and Taylor Swift. 

Much love,

Bee