The summer that wasn't

A few years ago I learned a breathing practice that I return to from time to time. You break the breath into four parts — inhale, pause at the top, exhale, pause at the bottom — and imagine each of those as a season. 

The inhale is the invigorating rush of relief that comes with the first signs of spring. The top of of the inhale is that fullness and bursting quality normally associated with summer. The exhale is that feeling of relief and return in autumn, as things start to wind down and wend inward, back to center. The bottom of the exhale is that wintery stillness, a low point, an eerie calm as you wait for the next breath.

I say “normally associated with summer” because full and bursting is not how this summer has felt — not at all. I sense that many of you reading will agree with me. The weather in the UK has been the worst I’ve remembered summer weather in the ten or so summers I’ve spent here. I’ve gone swimming about a quarter of the amount I did last year. The relief of getting my second vaccine in July was … not quite what I thought it would be. I still read multiple articles about the pandemic most days. Various personal and domestic dilemmas have only added insult to injury. All against the backdrop of climate doom and, you know, everything else.

My trip to the US in June, while worth it to see my family and meet my nephew, felt like anything but a break. Every time I picked up my phone, I gulped in anticipation of some change in rules that would mean I’d have to quarantine in a government-mandated hotel room for ten days, something I was certain would permanently damage my already-teetering mental health. A 15 day trip took 27 days out of my life with at-home quarantine, tests etc. It was a sobering (and not to mention expensive) reminder of how much the world has changed out there.

In truth, there’s always a pressure of disappointment that goes along with summer, even the good ones. In my halcyon southern California youth, it was: Did I do enough things to tell people about? Did I run enough miles before cross country season starts? Did I get tan enough? Did I have enough days at the beach drinking raspberry Arizona Iced Tea and supermarket sushi?

That’s the thing about summer: Even if you have the greatest one of your life, it eventually ends. The exhale has to begin, and so too the return to center and the emptying out, waiting for the cycle to begin again.

Even this summer, there’s been some bright spots, I guess. Growing things in my garden (so far, just pots and containers, but I have big plans). Enormous fifteen foot sunflowers in the garden where I volunteer. Eating dinner outside as much as possible. A new writing desk. Building the little routines to stake out in a small little life on: A drink out at the local on Thursdays, a walk each night after dinner, no to-do lists and omelettes on Sunday.

I’m writing this because I feel the need to say, as a gesture of solidarity to you, dear reader, that this summer sucked. I promise you that there is some relief in admitting that. In feeling your disappointment, feeling some grief for the summer we felt we all deserved. On an individual psychological level, humans do all kinds of wacky things when they refuse to admit something is hard; that sometimes there is no perfect answer or seamless way forward; that life, very often, guarantees suffering. Instead of facing it and sitting with it, some people bury it with avoidance, self sabotage, magical thinking, and projection. It’s not a good strategy, but from what I can tell, it’s the one that powers our entire culture.

Maybe admitting that this summer wasn’t like the ones before is the first step in reckoning with the fact that, after what we’ve been through in the last two years, life itself probably won’t be, either. I keep asking myself: If this is the size and scope of my life now, how should I make the most of it? Like a sunflower turning to face the light as the sun moves throughout the day, how can I shift to make life meaningful and rich, especially now? How can I remain present in this ancient and unmoving four-part cycle, without begging it to change?

I’m curious how this summer was for you. If you’d like some space to share how you’re feeling about the end of summer, use this comment thread. Who knows — maybe after you write it down, you can find the space to start your exhale and begin again.

Things I enjoyed reading this month

• This interview with the creator of the show White Lotus (spoilers abound) doubles as a self aware meditation on how to make art in an era obsessed with identity markers. [Vulture]

• An unnerving and wild snapshot of American decline, told through the story of down-and-out real estate speculators. [Washington Post]

• An incredibly thorny question not talked about enough: How much of bad, trollish behavior online is fueled by mental illness? [Unherd]

• I loved reading this thread of responses to the question: “How have the last 18 months radicalized you?” [Anne Helen Petersen]

• No one is allowed to credibly claim that their decision to not get vaccinated doesn’t affect other people. This, written by a Covid unit doctor, makes that case as convincingly as anything you’ll read. [LA Times]

• Why are so many knowledge economy workers quitting? Because they realized doing less feels good. [New Yorker]

• It’s helpful to remember all the ways we weren’t happy before all this. [New York Times]

Things I enjoyed listening to

• I have a confession: Sometimes, out of curiosity, I listen to the podcasts of people that lefty media Twitter has deemed Not Okay. Occasionally, I even enjoy them. An example is Bari Weiss’ conversation with Ryan Holiday, who talks about economics of feeling outraged and the merits of reading books over news. [Honestly]

• I learned a surprising amount in this 40 minute conversation between Michael Pollan and Kara Swisher about the effects of caffeine, the role of inflammation in our diets, and the way rituals shape how we think about certain drugs. [Sway]

• Apparently there is no limit to the amount of content about the Theranos story I can consume. John Carreyrou (who broke the original story for the WSJ) has a podcast covering the ongoing Elizabeth Holmes’ trial, which I’m listening to. [Bad Blood: The Final Chapter]

Programming note

In case you missed it, this newsletter now has a paid version, called What Do We Do Now That We’re Here. From now on, I’ll follow a repeating five-week schedule. Week one will be this free monthly edition, available to all subscribers. Week three will be an in-depth Q&A available only to paid subscribers (here’s the first one of those, un-paywalled). And week five will be a monthly lifestyle tip, also for paid subscribers. On weeks two and four I’ll leave you and your inbox alone. You can subscribe to the paid version below.

Thanks to all of you who’ve given me feedback and encouragement — and actual money in the form of paid subscriptions! — so far. I’m humbled and excited to keep building out this newsletter. I really love hearing from readers, so please do send me your thoughts if you have them. Hit reply or email rosiespinks@gmail.com.

Word Soup

“We should welcome an ability to tolerate periods of laziness not because we are congenitally idle, but because it is a sign that we have learned to speak more kindly to ourselves.” —The School of Life

“How shall we live? … As if every one of us is a seed, which as you know is a sacred thing. In my wildest dreams the seeds of every species are speaking to me, calling out: In all the bare spots on earth pant us and let us grow. On all the edges, plant seeds.” —Judith D Schwartz

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