No idea if this is the rainiest summer on record, but it certainly must rank up there, and we are all sick of it. After missing much of last summer thanks to an out-of-commission pool (when every day was sunny and 90 degrees) we had such high hopes for this season, and it largely sucked. But still we made it work, still we made it through… still, there was beauty. And some beauty is only present when it rains.

All this water also made for a happy garden. Most summers, by this point, find the garden gasping for rain, and a good soaking to see them through any hot days that are to come. It’s a chance to put forth one final growth spurt, a last run at sending out some fall roots before the long sleep of winter. 

My friend JoAnn and I were texting the other night about the lengthening shadows of August – and the fall about to arrive. Neither of us was exceptionally sad about it – there were other sorrows over which to ruminate, and the turn of the seasonal calendar is nothing to be mourned, even if it is the end of summer. A summer that never ends would not be summer at all. 

And so we pause, quietly, for a day of August appreciation, even if it’s in the rain. 

Engaging in the ancient art of blogging for the past couple of decades or so, I’ve found my creative output here has grown, while my other creative projects have dwindled. The last time I made anything worth mentioning was in 2019 when ‘Once Upon A Watercolor‘ came out, and prior to that it was the flight of fancy known as ‘The Delusional Grandeur Tour‘. These days most of my effort and work goes into what you are reading right now, as well as a few social media outlets. 

FaceBook is largely unreadable these days, thanks to a toxic mix of idiotic commenters, misinformation, and downright lies perpetuated and abetted by a ridiculous and arbitrary set of rules that censor marginalized groups and allow hate groups to flourish. Mostly I post like to this blog and photos of friends to tag, keeping the content I see as free from awfulness as possible. I’m also quick to block or unfriend any moron that posts anti-vac shit or COVID jokes because I don’t have the space for such stupidity. 

Twitter is markedly better at keeping things lighter, and I’ve culled and curated followers who share a thirst for the honest and good. There are trolls that abound there, but the block feature silences that nonsense quite well, and I’ve learned to not engage with anyone who doesn’t start from a sound place of truth and factual data. 

Instagram is, oddly enough, one of my least-used social media platforms – strange because for so much of my life visual enticement has been a steady accompaniment to the words I use. It’s also the least annoying when it comes to the trolls and awfulness that are so prevalent on other sites, so I will do what I always intend to do and try to focus on cultivating a bigger presence there. The only problem being that I’m largely sick of the selfie (I’ve been taking selfies since 1986, so forgive me if I’m already over it). 

Anyway, the melding of my social media personalities with my real life has been increasing and growing more cohesive as I become more comfortable with being myself, foibles and all, in every part of my life, and so the interchangeability of an online persona with a real human becomes more pronounced. That’s quite a relief when one has hidden behind an image that hasn’t always translated to a reality. This is what it means to begin living an authentic and genuine life – or at least the closest we can get in today’s fragmented, amorphous world. 

{This whole hoity-toity post is merely an attempt to get you to follow me on Instagram, Twitter, or FaceBook.}

Pine seedlings seem to have found a hospitable season with all the early rain we’ve had (even finding a place to sprout in the waterlogged wood of an aging fence). That’s all this post is about, and all it needs to be about. There is a little sliver of hope in this seedling, no matter what happens to it. 

Behold the beautiful bumblebee! I love these creatures. Though they make for a fierce and fearsome fuzzy front, they have always been docile and amiable when pollinating their favorite flowers in the garden. And in all the years of bumping up against them, they have never tried giving me a bite, unlike their grumpy cousins. (My hands still smart at the memory of an attack earlier this summer.) Bumbles merely bounce from flower to flower, awkwardly buzzing with seemingly happy abandon, and I’ve even had a few bump into my arm or chest as we were both navigating a hydrangea, and they’ve always been polite about it. 

This time of the year, when they are favoring a tree hydrangea and the seven-sons-flower tree about to start blooming, I will often find a few stuck in the pool, their wings vainly beating but not gaining enough air to lift them from the water. I always save them when I find them in such a predicament, pulling a piece of Northern sea oat grass and letting them climb aboard the rescue vessel to dry off and take flight. It’s the least I can do for something that doesn’t sting me. 

Would that the world should seem so friendly as a bumblebee…