The temperatures have finally dropped to match the season. We were getting August temperatures clear through the end of September. It was so hot our plants were wilting every day under the relentless rays of the sun, even when I watered them. The ground was parched from more than two months without rain, and the grass was so dry it hardened into brown needles that pierced the soles of my bare feet when I walked over it.
Now, though, I’m wearing flannel pajamas and fleece-lined slippers. It rained a slow, dripping rain all day yesterday. It’s too late to turn the brown grass green, but the garden will drink deeply and be refreshed.
All summer, when the flowers were in bright bloom, and colorful butterflies drifted among the blossoms, and we sailed on the lake under blue skies and white puffy clouds, I wanted it to be summer forever. But in September when the flowers faded, and perennials grew scraggly, and green leaves crisped to brown, yet the heat continued unabated, I realized I only want summer if it’s all the way summer — vivid and alive in the warmth. The heat alone wasn’t enough. I wanted the flowers and the freshness, too.
There’s no stopping the changing of the seasons. It’s useless to resist. I hiked last week to a waterfall, and surrounded by the roar of rushing water, I watched leaves flutter gently down. I sat cross-legged on a rock and accepted that summer is over.
It feels better to stop wishing for something I can’t have. It feels better to go with it, to do what I can to adapt. Now, I write while a cat purrs on my flannel lap. I feel cool crisp air blow through the open windows. I sip my steaming cup of coffee, ready for autumn.