Summertime Sadness

Summertime Sadness, the song by Lana Del Rey, is stuck in my head. It coincides with the Ironweed blooming in my garden, its deep purple tufts are the first sign that autumn is coming. August is when the world slows down a bit, people go on vacation, heatwaves get more tedious, and emails are often met with out-of-office messages. Yet the garden, especially my vegetable garden, demands work to be done. Tomatoes to be processed into sauce for the winter. Zucchini to be challenged into new recipes. Basil to be turned into pesto. And the apples leaning heavily into September apple sauce season.

This is the first year I won’t have kids around on the regular to feed, so I am freezing things into single-serving containers instead of larger jars. I am not sad about this, since my kids are all seemingly well-adjusted and happy with their life paths. It’s more a sense of wondering how many summers I might have left to savor the beauty, flavors, and fragrances of the waning of the year. I also wonder what we will face in the summers ahead — the heat that keeps on rising, the waters that keep on being poisoned, the extreme weather that wreaks havoc on our environment and electrical grids. I always prefer to turn worry into action, so instead of panicking I’m preserving food and planning on adding a wind turbine to my solar array to provide power when the sun isn’t shining, which in Pennsylvania feels like ALL winter long.

Since publishing Love Nature Magic, I’ve also decided to stop weeding. So yes, the mugwort is as high as an elephant’s eye. But the birds and bees and butterflies are thrilled. This summer I saw a Scarlet Tanager, a Bluebird, lots of Baltimore Orioles, and Hummingbirds, and heard a screeching baby Great Horned Owlet calling for food all night for a few weeks. And I actually have a lot more time on my hands to enjoy the pleasures of summer. I still cut things back when they are in the way. And I pull out the poison ivy when it’s in a place that might hurt my family. Right now my moral struggle is whether or not to call an exterminator because there is a hornet’s nest in the pool pump area and the guys who clean my pool want me to get rid of it. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. But I also don’t want to add toxins into the yard. I guess I’m going to have to do a journey to talk with them. But honestly, I don’t feel like it. I’m tired. It’s too damn hot. I’ve got the summertime sadness.

It feels a bit like longing for something I don’t know what it is. And simultaneously wanting to shed all the things that don’t feel right anymore. I kind of understand what a tree might feel like in the fall. Yes, I’m grateful for the leaves (all my experiences), but ready to let go and start over again, still me, but a new version of me. The fruit I have produced this year is bountiful, and amazing — from finally having USDA Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsak visit the Rodale Institute, to my ongoing relationship with all of you here with my writing (I appreciate all of you!). I was gifted two adorable fig trees from my friend Pat Corpora (they are named Guido and Guiseppe).

But this was also a hard year with unpleasant insights into people. Some severing of long-term relationships with people I thought I could trust (it’s extremely hard for me to trust in the first place!). A series of stupid sicknesses (including my first bout of Covid). And recently I saw people’s disgusting comments on Facebook about Kamala Harris — not memes, just ignorant people making sexual and racial slurs and believing they are on the side of “Jesus.” If it wasn’t so sickening it might be funny. But the gift, just like betrayal, is seeing who people really are so we can protect ourselves and our families from toxins and negative energy. I mean, the stuff coming out of people’s mouths — especially men, but not only men — is epically disappointing. It’s hard not to feel sad for humanity. Especially the children who grow up hearing such damaging words. It feels a bit like a turning point for the women I know and respect, and me, frankly. The era of “when they go low, we go high” feels like it led to being taken advantage of. Now it’s “when they go low, we unleash the gates of hell.” (Not sure who said that but it feels right.) The ultimate irony is that some Republicans have been using the Dixie Chick’s epic rage song I’m Not Ready To Make Nice at their rallies — completely oblivious to the fact that it was written about them! It’s the willful ignorance that seems unforgivable. I remember. I remember it well.

I’m rambling a bit. We need rain. What’s the cure for summertime sadness?

I’ll let you know when I figure it out.

But I hear thunder, so that’s a good start.