August Feels
August has a feel to it.
It’s difficult to put into words, but maybe you feel it too. There’s a settled quality to August—a sense that summer has finally become comfortable in its own skin. The days are warm, the sun lingers, and leaving the house requires little more than slipping on a pair of flip-flops. Everything feels just a little easier. But underneath that ease, there’s something else.
A bittersweetness.
Because by August, we know.
The nights will soon begin to cool. Eventually, the days will follow. Before long, back-to-school signs appear everywhere, routines return, calendars fill up, and somehow we’re talking about fall before summer has even had the decency to leave.
The Bittersweetness of August
For so many of us, the rhythm of the school year shaped the first part of our lives.
September meant beginnings.
June meant freedom.
August existed somewhere in between—a beautiful stretch of time when summer was still very much alive, but we could already feel its ending approaching. That rhythm continues to govern the lives of people with children, those who work in education, and even many of us who technically have no reason to organize our lives around a school calendar anymore.
Still, August feels like a countdown. Perhaps that’s why I want so badly to slow it down. In recent years, I’ve made an intentional effort to move more slowly during the summer months.
Work can wait, I’ve told myself.
This year, however, work has been abundant, and I’ve found myself falling into some familiar patterns—particularly my ongoing struggle with saying no. So, as I began writing this on August 1, I made a decision. I was going to make the most of this glorious month.
Not by doing more.
By noticing more.
When Nostalgia Meets the Present
August began by seeing my favorite band play at my favorite ballpark.
Phish didn’t disappoint, and neither did having seats on the turf. Standing on the field at Fenway Park while watching a band that has meant so much to me for 30 years was completely mind-blowing. Phish actually played two nights at Fenway this summer, July 31 and August 1, making the beginning of August feel even more like a collision between past and present.
Maybe that’s what nostalgia really is. For a moment, time folds in on itself. Being back in my old Boston neighborhood felt like some sort of timeline jump. We haven’t lived in that part of Boston since the ’90s, which, as much as I hate admitting it, was a really long time ago. Walking through streets you once knew intimately offers its own lesson in impermanence and change. You look for places you expect to still be there.
Most aren’t.
Buildings change.
Businesses disappear.
Neighborhoods evolve.
And somehow, while you were busy living your life, the places that once held that life kept living without you.
Except Bukowski.
Thank God for Bukowski.
Finding something familiar among everything that had changed felt strangely comforting. Maybe we need a few things to remain—not because we expect the world to stand still, but because familiar places remind us that earlier versions of ourselves actually existed.
We were there.
We lived those lives.
And then we changed too.
And Just Like That, August Is Ending
Now I’m picking this back up with August almost behind us. Our annual camping trip with friends is in the rearview mirror, and this week we’ll turn the calendar to September. Every end of summer feels like an ending to me. There’s almost a sense that another tiny piece of innocence fades with it. The kids who have been camping with us since they were babies aren’t babies anymore.
They’re growing up.
Actually, some of them are pretty much grown. Meanwhile, the adults have changed too. The nights end a little earlier now. We drink more water. There’s even the occasional non-alcoholic beer.
Seriously. What would our younger selves say?
Watching Time Pass in Real Time
Around the campfire, we talk about next year while quietly understanding that next year may look different. The parents and kids discuss how back-to-school is going. Those of us without children talk about planning a fall camping trip. Meanwhile, the kids run around without a care in the world. For a moment, everything feels incredibly simple. That simplicity has always been one of the things I love most about camping. Life becomes smaller in the best possible way.
Food.
Fire.
Weather.
Friends.
Sleep.
Conversation.
A walk.
Another fire.
There’s very little pressure to turn any of it into something more impressive. Maybe that’s part of what slow living really means. Not creating a perfectly curated life where everything is peaceful and aesthetically pleasing, but becoming present enough to recognize when life is already giving you what you need.
Wanting to Hold On
I wish I could hold onto this feeling forever.
The hot days.
Chilly—but not cold—nights.
Bare feet.
T-shirts and shorts.
Sitting outside without thinking about whether I need another layer.
Knowing what comes next but not quite wanting to face it yet.
Of course, that’s the contradiction. If we had August all year, August wouldn’t feel like August. Part of what makes a moment precious is knowing that it cannot stay.
We understand this intellectually, but accepting it emotionally is another thing entirely. Impermanence sounds almost beautiful when discussed philosophically. Living it is messier. Sometimes it looks like watching children grow up.
Other times it’s walking through an old neighborhood and discovering that the places you remember aren’t there anymore. Occasionally, it’s simply sitting outside on a perfect summer evening knowing that in another month, the air will feel completely different. Nothing terrible has happened. Yet something is ending.
Learning to Savor What Is Here
As I look down at my dirty feet, I feel grateful for my ability to recognize the moments that are meant to be savored. Maybe that recognition is its own kind of gift. I can sit here and drink in the sweetness of air that could not possibly be a more perfect temperature.
The sun feels good.
My feet are dirty.
There is nowhere particularly important to be. And right now, that feels like enough. Perhaps mindful living isn’t always about meditation, journaling, or creating elaborate rituals. Sometimes mindfulness is simply realizing:
This is good.
I am here.
I want to remember this.
The Seasons Will Change Anyway
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