Wonders from July.
Lake water, pebbles and wildflowers, straw bag and my mother's garden.
July was a month filled with visits to the lake. My sister and I, arms full — baskets, towels, juice boxes, sunscreen smudged on little cheeks. My little ones were always barefoot, my little boy running ahead, chasing shadows. The ritual of our visits to the lake goes like this. We find a soft patch by the shore. Picnic blanket down, striped towels by the blanket, on dark green grass. The air smells of pine needles and warm earth. The lake stretches out before us, dark green and deep. It looks almost still — until you notice the soft ripples, the tiny waves lapping against the sides. The children in the lake squeal at the cold, then forget it. They dive, they splash. We laugh. I always steal a few moments just for myself. It is my favorite summer moment. Being still and floating. I just let the water take me. Looking up at the sky, clouds drifting slow. I always feel like I am falling from the sky when I look deeply into it. The world falls quiet — only the hush of water in my ears, the gentle tug of it against my limbs. Beneath me, I feel the slick stones, sometimes catching my toes. Around the anchored boats, dragonflies circle. They dart, vanish, return. For a moment, it’s only me, the lake, and the sky — and I feel held by something much older than summer.
Field walks are always my wonder. Always full of wonders too. Stones. Nests. Tree canopies. Queen Anne’s Lace. Antlers. Doe in the valley. Rabbit in the grove. We walk along a sunlit field paths, the kind that winds gently between old fences and golden grasses. The earth is soft in places, cracked in others — and the dust clings to our sandals. Everything seems like some old memory. Around us, the tall grass sways. It sounds like someone is slowly whisperinf. In the distance: a pond rimmed with reed beds, the water barely visible through the dense green. We hear it more than see it — the low hum of insects, the occasional flap of greylag’s wings. Further off, in the dip of the valley, we often catch glimpses. A deer, pausing. A fox darting through underbrush. A rabbit watching us from a patch of clover. Above us, birdsong. Robins, tits, cuckoos calling from deep within the leafy canopies. Somewhere nearby, wild geese and ducks take off with a rustle and splash. Wildflowers are now in every shade — blue cornflowers, pink yarrow, soft white umbels. We weave them into loose bundles, some for drying, others destined for vases back home. These walks are slow, and long, and exactly right.
Third wonder: my old straw bag. She’s at least five summers old — maybe more — and it shows. The straw is softened now, frayed at the edges, its original stiffness long gone. Last year she started to come apart, threads loosening. But I wasn’t ready to let her go. So I cut strips of floral fabric, soft floral cotton. With a thick metal needle, I stitched them right through the straw and the lining. Rough work, but honest. Every pull of the thread felt like a promise: not finished yet. I carry her often this summer. To the lake, filled with towels and tangerines and books with sandy corner. To the orchard, where I tuck in picking blanket and my painting tools. To the meadow, with my sisters camera for capturing nature, flasks of water and my sketchbook. It always somehow smells of lavender oil, dry grass, and something sweet I can’t quite Name. There’s comfort in carrying something that’s lasted — something I’ve mended with my own hands. Not everything needs to be new to be good. Some things are more beautiful for having been saved.
Wonder is often found in my children’s voices. In our tales, imagination and curiosity. I share it with them, I inspire it in them, I love to live it with them. We find those tales in my mom's garden. Often. In July, mostly under these green nets. The mornings are soft when we arrive — air cool, ground damp with dew, the light just beginning to warm the leaves. Everything is quiet, but not silent. There’s the hum of bees and the creak of the greenhouse door. Tomatoes hang heavy on their vines, red and full si we pick them gently, placing them in shallow baskets lined with old kitchen towel. Between the berry bushes — blueberries, aronia, raspberries — my little one is already crouched, lips stained deep purple, cheeks sticky with juice. There we imagine little elves living under wide bush branches. Dahlias and poppies are around us in raised beds. We snip, we make tiny bouqets for fairy that love in plum tree holes. Other we press in books. And between tales we speak in half-whispers. We laugh. When the baskets are full, we settle beneath the old pear tree. Rest.
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Little suggestions:
Read my Garden Notes. All about our time in the garden, my notes that I wrote after time there. So now you get to read them sometimes, too.
Here, in the countryside I have more time to paint. So I take my painter’s bag to the fields, I sit there for a bit and paint. Do you want to know what I bring in my painter’s bag for the countryside days?
Read my Cherishing Seasons Letter from July here.