A Reflection of a Disappointing Summer

Well. Here we are, already the last day of August. In Michigan, we usually don’t view the conclusion of summer until after Labor Day, which is in three more days. However, September is just a few hours away, and I don’t care what you say: September is an autumn month. (After all, as I’m writing this blog post, I’m also watching the first MSU game of the season. Doesn’t get any more autumn-like than watching football.)

I think back what I managed to accomplish during the past 3-4 months, and honestly, I feel a bit disappointed at how much I didn’t get around doing what I was hoping to do. (It probably didn’t help that I spent half of my summer evenings watching my sister’s puppy whenever she was out. Puppies are like newborn babies; they have a lot of energy and are quite needy.)

In a fit of panic, I probably did more summer-y activities during the month of August than what I did in the other months. Once again, I did not go on any vacations or out-of-town day trips. (That’s what happens when you’re strapped for money.) The kayak trip from two weeks ago was my attempt at trying to enjoy the summer sun, to pretend that I was someplace not ten minutes away from my house.

I’m currently on Book #17 of the year (ONE DARK THRONE by Kendare Blake). Technically, I’m still on schedule to reach twenty-two books by the end of the year, but I didn’t read as many books this summer that I wanted. (To be fair, though, I’ve also been doing a lot of manuscript reading for my internship.)

I’m also disappointed that I didn’t work on any writing projects this summer. I haven’t written anything that’s considered fiction writing since my Spring Project was completed in the middle of May. I’m itching to write something, but I don’t have any short story ideas to work on. Of course, all I really need to do is just sit down and force myself to write, but that act is easier said than done. I’m hoping it's not going to be November when I finally write something creatively. (The poem from earlier this month doesn't count.)

Then again, I’ve been feeling very frustrated with almost everything the last two weeks. Nothing seems to be working in my favor. Last Friday, my phone even died. Upon waking up that day, I was greeted with a completely black screen, unwilling to turn on. Anything linked through google was saved (i.e. all of my pictures), but I lost all text messages older than 90 days and four years’ worth of Memo notes. (I guess this is just the summer of me losing data. Remember my Word document I mentioned back in May?) As you can guess, I had a fun weekend dealing with this. Luckily, I got a free replacement phone because when my phone started acting up last year, insurance was placed on it.

So even though summer may be drawing to an end, and I didn’t accomplish nearly as much as I was hoping, perhaps fall will serve me better. The last four months of the year always fly by for me. Not that I want it to slip away in a blink of an eye – after all, I have my work cut out for me for the next month and a half before my birthday. I’m not ready to turn 26.

Send help.

A Ripple Effect

Two weeks ago, I was reading a blog post of an old classmate’s. (She’s a book reviewer with about 150 followers.) She had reviewed two poetry books, which was the first time that she had discussed these forms of writing. I had never heard of these women before, but I was intrigued enough to watch a video of their spoken poetry.

I enjoyed both of them but the first one seemed to have more of a storytelling voice, which I was drawn to. Unfortunately, I watched another video before I went to bed that night, and instead of actually sleeping, I pondered about the poet’s dog and how it enjoyed getting dressed up because maybe it wanted to be pretty like a teenage girl.

And then I traveled down the rabbit hole of memories, remembering when I took a poetry workshop class two years ago. It was a tight-knit class of only eight students (including myself), and when you have to trudge through the snow in the early hours to reach this class three times a week (gotta love those 8 a.m. classes), it was certainly memorable.

Not only did we have to read multiple chapbooks, but we were required to attend at least two poetry events on campus during that semester. I wasn’t too thrilled about it at the time, but now I see why my professor had forced us to go.

One of the events I attended was a Poetry Slam. While waiting in the lobby, I located a shy classmate of mine and made small talk with her. Another classmate of mine found us, and eventually, the three of us found seats together inside the lecture hall. The Slam consisted of various students reciting their spoken poetry, hoping to win one of the prizes at the end. A guy from my poetry class was one of performers, so we all made sure to show our support for him. (In the end, he did not win anything, though.)

Needless to say, after I spent so many hours in this poetry-like headspace, I wrote my first poem of the year two weeks ago. So even though I haven’t written any fictional stories lately, at least I have that.

Except now I’m spending quite a bit of time thinking about metaphors.

For example, I visited my local metropark this past Tuesday. The weather was great, and I had nothing going on that day except to do some proofreading in the evening, so I decided I’d go kayaking. I had wanted to go all summer, but everyone I know is always too busy, so I made the decision to go by myself.

Like I predicted, no one is really out on the lake on a Tuesday afternoon, so it was quite peaceful. At one point, as I was following the coastline of an island, I found myself paddling along in the part of water that was filled with vegetation. Farther up ahead, something caught my eye.

A single white flower on a lily pad among a sea of green.

I felt compelled to capture the beauty of it; I slowly rowed closer so I could take a picture.

As I was snapping the photo, my kayak began to drift. I promptly crashed into the entire cluster of lily pads, causing it to dip underneath the water and destroy the scene. I maneuvered myself away as quickly as I could, apologizing to the lily pads as if they could respond. When I glanced behind me the flower had bobbed back up, and the lily pads reassembled themselves back into formation. I felt guilty for colliding into nature like that, but I admired their resiliency.

After spending two full hours kayaking, I returned my rental and found myself a nice picnic bench along the water. The grass gently sloped downward not far from where I was seated, and the launching dock was nearby enough where I could watch all the people taking off on their own adventures.

I spent the next hour reading my book (BURIED HEART by Kate Elliott) and spent another hour after that writing (which was a little challenging due to my three new blisters on my thumbs from kayaking).

In between the reading and writing, I walked over to the shore and stepped into the water. Squinted my eyes against the sun, listened to the soft ukulele music being carried by the wind, and watched the minnows scurry away from me. When I wiggled my toes in the sand, I was mesmerized by how far the water rippled in every direction. I don’t think I could throw a stone far enough to reach where the rippling ended.

As I stood there on the makeshift shore, I wondered how far the ripple effect of my life had extended to various people. Do any of my old classmates ever wonder what I’m up to? Or those old friends that either moved away for a job or simply faded away in time?

Do you ever truly know how far the ripples extend until you look back in hindsight and can pinpoint its origin?

Did it start when I stepped into the lake? When I drove to the park? When I saw how great the weather would be that day? When I decided to kayak by myself this week? After I had kayaked for the first time last summer?

Perhaps it doesn’t really matter. Maybe I just wanted to witness nature humbly showing off as if it too were a teenage girl, looking for affirmation.