Meditations on Late Summer

The start of every summer is always so full of excitement—the promise of endless free time, lazy mornings, late nights, swimming in pools and oceans, climbing trees and mountains, reading books. Every year around late May, the summer looms so large. It seems so immense. Those endless days! Those boozy low-pressure thunderstorm nights! And so little that must be done!

I used to make “summer plans” every May when school ended: plans that including a list of books to read, projects to work on, relationships to pursue, etc. But invariably, most of these “plans” never really materialized. June would come and go, July would be a flurry of vacation, August would start and so would school. Soon it was football and marching band and getting the right calculator for math class. Pep rallies, bonfires, ever shortening sunlight. Summer a fading memory. Another year passing.

The students are slowing finding their way back to Biola’s campus these days. I work full time here so I’ve been on campus all summer, enjoying the quiet quad and near-empty cafeteria. But all that changes this week as another school year begins. Things will get lively again. The rhythms of work and study and discipline return. It’s definitely exciting. But it also means the summer is over.

At the start of this summer, way back in mid-May when school let out and graduates dispersed, I took a trip to England. I stayed for a while in C.S. Lewis’ house, The Kilns, in Oxford. I slept in each morning, summer-style. I wrote in the flowering gardens. I took walks to the pond on misty/cool afternoons. When I didn’t feel like writing, I read books that I found in the library. Everything Lewis ever wrote was there on the shelves, and some of it was new to me. I picked up a book of Lewis’ poetry one day, in which I came across this poem. I’m not sure when he wrote it or if it was ever published, but it sounds like he wrote it late in life. It captures a lot of what “late summer” means, I think:

Late Summer

I, dusty and bedraggled as I am,
Pestered with wasps and weed and making jam,
Blowzy and stale, my welcome long outstayed,
Proved false in every promise that I made,
At my beginning I believed, like you,
Something would come of all my green and blue.
Mortals remember, looking on the thing
I am, that I, even I, was once a spring.

There’s a lot of regret in those words, as in every August. The regret of things that never quite materialize, love that never happens the way you thought it would, barbecue experiments that go slightly awry.

Ah, the end of summer. It’s about change, aging, and looking back. Just ask Yasujiro Ozu, whose penultimate film was entitled The End of Summer and who, like C.S. Lewis, died in 1963. Or ask Rilke, whose poem “Autumn Day” evokes the late summer in its famous opening line: “Lord, it is time: The summer was immense.”

Indeed. It was immense. There is still sand in my suitcase. But it’s time to move on.

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5 responses to “Meditations on Late Summer

  1. Hello Brett. I came across your summer post and thought you might appreciate a poem I wrote on my blog called, “Last Summer.”

    http://danielromo.wordpress.com/2009/08/18/

    -Daniel

  2. Daniel- really beautiful poem. Great descriptive language. Thanks for sharing it! Did you grow up in L.A. (I only wonder because of the Dodgers reference).

  3. Yes. I bleed Dodger Blue. And I like how you include John 3:17 as well. Most people are only familiar with 16.

  4. I’ve just watched ‘The Class’ (French Movie). Then I come here to read your review. Like you said, not every film can leave its mark on us. And this post seems to be an answer of many questions ‘The Class’ left me.

    P.S. summer is my favorite season.

  5. Thanks Brett. I’m a fan of the end of summer and autumn as catalysts for contemplations of mortality. Richard Strauss gave an achingly beautiful musical setting of Herman Hesse’s poem, September, which became part of Strauss’ final collection of songs (Four Last Songs), composed just before his death:

    It’s a German text, but imagine Summer personified, wandering thru a cold weary garden, preparing to close his eyes.

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