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August Is a Promise

tucked inside every ending...


By the middle of August the sprightly yellow-greens of spring show their age. Leaves once supple and youthful turn a stately and modest hue. Mature, deep greens tinged with earthy tones line the streets and fields, telling the seasonal time. This is before they progress to their Act Two brilliance in the fall.

August is a promise of things to come. A sucking in of breath before the winds exhale a riot of autumn color over the land. The lazy days of late summer hold excitement in their languid hours. I start to feel energized in the heat, and although I might be dozing on my blanket at the beach, my mind is full of ideas and plans for the future.


As some of you already know, I’ve been working with an editor who showed interest in publishing one of my stories. Over the last year I fixed plot points and specific details based on the editor’s notes. Recently, though, I received an email saying he could not continue helping me: he ran out of time for his upcoming project. He invited me to resubmit next year, either the story we were working on or a different one, and told me he nearly made an offer, but the story wasn’t quite there yet.


Growing and changing is painful sometimes. Waiting for the harvest takes patience. As the end of August approaches, I shake off a bit more of my youthful brightness, slip on my stately greens. I’m diligent in my efforts, focused on my tasks, so when the time comes, I’m ready for whatever surprises might follow.


Lammas or “loaf mass” is a northern European harvest festival celebrated on August 1. Loaves of bread made from the first harvest grain were consecrated by the early English church. This August I’m gathering up what I learned over the past year: a year full of excitement and let downs, of challenges, near misses, and triumphs. I’m organizing my files, writing the stories, preparing for the year ahead. And while August is a kind of dying off of the old, it’s also a preparation for the new: tucked inside every ending is a new beginning.

I get a tingle in my belly when crickets sing on a dog-star evening or a hint of autumn wind sidles through the trees after a thunderstorm. The seasons remind me that I’m constantly changing, and if my heart is open, my harvest will be bountiful.

What do you look forward to harvesting this season?

Until next time,


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