It is winter, but I am thinking of spring.

I know it is winter because I am standing in the shower watching my dark brown hair tangle itself around my fingers, lace over my pointer and under my middle finger like a sewing pattern. The strands wind around and slide down the length of my fingers, gathering with water droplets at my fingertips. My hair spirals slowly toward the tile, collecting at the drain.

Since I became concerned about the amount of hair I shed when I was young, my mom has always insisted that hair falls out when the seasons change. Today, my hair is falling out and it’s clogging my shower drain and so I know it is winter. I leave the apartment in layers and leave the office in darkness. My music is a little more mellow and when I accidentally touch the radiator in my bedroom, I’m burned. It is winter.

I am standing here thinking of last spring. Because it was warmer -- the sunshine, the full trees. Sitting on the porch until late, opening the windows on Sunday mornings.

Do you know the feeling of that first real day of spring? When everything is changing -- rain shows on the forecast, the trees are budding, time will move forward, you must rotate your closet, birds wake you in the morning? But also when you linger outside a little more, take the longer route home? When everything feels technicolor? The flowers, a brighter shade of pink. The sky, a brighter shade of blue. When you can change into a t-shirt and feel the sun, a little stronger than normal, kiss your skin? I am thinking of that day.

2025 felt a lot like spring to me. A year -- like the season -- of change.

I spent its first day at home before returning south for the last semester of college. I can’t think of something I want more than to watch the semester back, reliving every moment. There were movie nights and snow days, concerts and nights in the yard by the fire. Sweaty afternoons on the pickleball courts, long mornings in coffee shops writing my thesis. The photo booth at Dive Bar, dancing at Burke St, cosmos at Sofa Bar. Visits from family and friends. Nights when our couch had not a seat to spare and walks through Reynolda. Hikes at Hanging Rock, concerts with friends. Cross country skiing and line dancing. Evenings with bands at the frats and chill nights with a guitar and some friends. Making dinner while the light came in through that side window, celebrating my birthday.

There were happy endings -- that perfect last day of school that ended with Kate crying in my car (for good reason), signing the bell tower which was better because Charlotte could come, graduation pictures when Katy and I drank our whole bottle of champagne accidentally, the camp programming we created for our week off, a long weekend in Charleston when Jenna and I jumped in the water. And there were tears -- a lot of tears -- from Stella on our couch and from me just about everywhere. There were too many goodbyes. There was that last early morning all together and throwing our caps in the air and the horrible drive home that next morning. The goodbyes, like I was told, would end up becoming “see you laters” but I didn’t know it yet.

Summer brought a trip to Italy and to the French Riviera. Beach days in my favorite place. A revolving door of family and friends. Reunions. It brought my first real job at the company I wanted to be at, an apartment with the friend I wanted to live with, and a move to the city I wanted to be in. Fall was reconnecting with childhood friends and meeting new ones, spending every waking moment with Amelia and Emily, figuring out my routine, decorating and hosting, finding my regular spots and learning that my train runs express way too often. It brought new traditions and Tuesday nights with friends, Amtrak rides to see my parents, and walks in the park.

It’s winter now. The snow blankets the stoop and icicles hang off the fire escape. I wonder how many trips I’ll take this year and how much I’ll miss the city when I’m somewhere new. How often I’ll wish I was home and how much I’ll miss my friends. How late I’ll work on busy weeks and how many weekends I’ll have to check my email. How often I’ll get to the beach. How cold it is to walk from the train to the office and how my fingers feel when I get inside.

But I’m thinking of spring. Of change and joy. Of how springtime is hard to rival, and how last year will be hard to beat. But spring comes again as it always does -- in just a few weeks it will be light until late. Just how I like it. I’ll feel unbridled without the weight of my wool coat hanging off my bones, and the warm sun will feel like relief when it hits my face.

___

My favorite Substack for years has been Chloe in Letters. In her Yearbook published last month, she listed things she wants in the new year. I don’t really believe in “resolutions” but I find it easy to make a list of goals for the year. I liked this format and so here’s what I wrote in my notebook after reading hers:

I want to wake up just one day this whole year and not reach for my phone right away. Then I want to stare at the ceiling a little bit

I want my hair to grow out in the way I’ve wanted

I want to stop looking at my legs in the mirror so much

I want to copy my favorite lines and poems into my notebook more. Then I want to memorize them. I used to be better at this than I am now. Even right now I can’t remember the second line to O’Hara’s “Having a Coke With You” which to me is the best poem in the whole world and therefore I should know its second line

I want to read books that I haven’t read yet that I must: Wuthering Heights, The Catcher in the Rye, Beloved, the rest of The Neapolitan Quartet

I want to write more. I say this every year

I want to spend less time in my head

I want to say exactly how I feel right in the moment I feel it. Cut the time between feeling and expressing. Cut the thinking

I want to listen to my playlist that reminds me of waking up on Cloverly Lane on a Sunday morning every Sunday morning while I make my bed and get ready for the day

I want to swim in the ocean as much as I can

I want to see the sunrise. I seek the sunset but never the sunrise. I want to do that this year

I want to walk a lot, like last year

I want to listen to more classical music while I’m walking

I want to listen to more Nina Simone while I’m doing everything

I want to ask my parents more questions about their lives and write down what they say, or at least record it to listen to later

I want to talk to my brothers more

I want to eat all of my favorite foods, especially pasta. A lot of pasta. And I want to cook things the way my dad does

I want to say that I want to care a little less about a lot of things, but the more I think about caring less, the more I want to be a person who cares more. Even if sometimes it’s too much

I want just one time for something to happen and for me to act exactly how I want to. Impulsively even. No asking friends for opinions

I want to live by what Didion said -- when asked why she uses her good silver every day, she replies “every day is all there is”

I want to host more parties

I want to listen to more albums front to back

I want to take a dance class just to remember how that felt and get my Spanish back

I want to never close my eyes at night knowing that I hadn’t said I love you to my best friends. One of my favorite parts of life is that so many of us have been in the middle of a conversation for many years

I want to make a habit of my mornings. My mornings are mostly free of working and so I want to rise early, move slow, move my body, make breakfast, read, write, walk to the train

I want to travel. I want to go back to LA (I miss it), to a new country in Europe (Spain or Denmark), and to a state I’ve never been (Oregon or Washington)

I want to explore the city more. I have barely scratched the surface. It makes me nervous in the same way not being able to listen to every song or read every book before I die makes me nervous. I want to go to more museums, try all the restaurants on my list, wander around new neighborhoods alone sometimes and with friends most of the time, take a new subway line, walk from the tip of the island to the top of Manhattan, lay in parks when the sun comes out again, etc.

I want to embrace the year of the horse: running toward energy, freedom, movement, and enthusiasm like Instagram has told me

I hope I’ll write again soon and maybe I’ll have made some progress on the above. Thanks for being here

Sydney xx

Late summer boasts the best of qualities: warm days and cool nights, foggy mornings and vibrant sunsets, a clear sea and graveyards of shells, nostalgia for summers past and yearning for the next. With it comes humid mornings and frizzy hair, jellyfish stings and cuts from broken shells, afternoon thunderstorms and hurricanes.

I remember past hurricane seasons clearly -- boarding the windows of the house by the water, watching neighbors kayak down flooded streets, staring at the waves spray over the rocks and cover the bridge in ocean water. I remember sitting on the porch, under cover, and watching lightning strike over Sea Isle, the dark clouds roll over the Atlantic. I like watching storms, hearing the rain beat the roof.

Last week, Hurricane Erin swept the East Coast and damaged homes and shorelines in its path. Our street was lucky -- no flooding, no mangled roofs. Our beach wasn’t as lucky -- smooth walking paths and well-kept dunes now look like cliffs on Southern California beaches and the replenishing work that widened our beach at the start of the summer has been completely reversed.

In a strange, beautiful way, the next day -- Friday -- was the most magnificent beach day of the summer. Kate and I headed down to the shoreline, unsure of what to expect, around 4pm. After taking in the new sandy bluffs and calculating the tides, we laid out our towels.

It was out of the ordinary for the two of us to be quiet, but I think we probably said fifty words to each other the entire night. My phone had died from working all day and I was totally off the clock for the first time in a while. The waves were higher and rougher than I’d ever seen them -- I’m very confident in the ocean, and I was hesitant to go in too far. Even still, I swam about half a dozen times. There were more surfers than I’d ever seen in Avalon. Kate and I marveled at their skill, watching in both jealousy and awe. The weather was impeccable -- as it neared 8pm, we threw knit sweaters over our bikinis.

Toward the end of sunset, I dove in one last time. Kate was cold, so I ventured myself. I couldn’t pass it up -- the sky was pink, surfers surrounded, and summer is nearing its end. I had a feeling overwhelm me, as I spun in the ocean -- pink ahead and gold behind me. It was that feeling I always get when I begin to mourn the moment I’m in before it’s even over. Except when I felt it on Friday, it quickly faded into something of content -- a feeling I’m relatively unacquainted with.

I feel inclined to mourn, to regret, to chase what’s next -- to be generally unsatisfied with what I’ve done or what others have done and to pursue the next thing, quicker and better. But content -- with myself, with others, with the moment -- is something harder to come by. Maybe it was that my phone was dead or that I was at my favorite place on earth with one of the best friends I’ve ever had or that I was off work for a little or that the water was shiny and I like water and shiny things, too, or that I’m older. I don’t really know. But I felt like I’d arrived. Arrived in a perfect moment -- one that I didn’t want to rush, and one that I didn’t ruin by trying to make it last. I couldn’t stop turning to Kate and saying, “The weather is perfect. This is the best day of my life.”

I’m always trying to make things last. To make something ephemeral, stick. That’s why writers write. Why artists paint and photographers take photos. Why movies are made and people make silly videos on TikTok and YouTube documenting their days. We all have the same thing in mind -- arriving at the present moment and making it last forever.

Art is touching because it does just that. But what might it feel like to not document? To sit and wait it out, no mourning, regretting, chasing. I don’t know entirely. And if you do, I want to know.

Kate and I headed home around 8:30pm, showered, and fell fast asleep. Ever since, I’ve been thinking about those uncomfortable feelings of being present and of being content. I want them to return. How will I replicate it? This is my next challenge

I guess this is turning into a record of how I learn to slow down and stay present. I wish you luck as you endure this journey with me. If you’re family or a friend, you are impossibly patient and I am impossibly grateful. Maybe next week, I’ll have something new to say. Probably not.

Plus, Labor day is impending, which means summer is fleeting fast I recommend listening to Pinegrove and John Prine, watching The Map That Leads To You (the leading female’s inability to be present may remind you of me) on AmazonPrime, reading this article about swimming called “The Water Cure” in The Times and this poem by Mary Oliver called “August,” and trying a different walking route than normal to help cope. That’s what I’ve been doing.

Plus, an update on last week’s message - this only took two hours over the course of three days with only six rereads. I hate how some (most) of the sentences sound and I left them that way. I enjoyed myself. I don’t want to share this because of the imperfect sentences but I am going to anyway. That’s improvement

See you soon x

Sydney

Though I had many minutes to write at the beginning of summertime, I was not interested. I read a lot of good words — both novels and poetry. I listened to even more — the lack of new music I’ve enjoyed this summer has me digging for good music, and it’s been worth it. But for some reason, both my pen and my laptop felt harder to pick up than normal.

I’m working on practicing “radical acceptance.” Amelia (a therapist and lucky for me, a best friend and my roommate) convinced me of it recently. She said it means “completely and wholeheartedly surrendering to the truth of a situation and then allowing it to be exactly what it is without forcing yourself to act one way or another in response.”

We were talking about boys, because they take up a large portion of what we talk about. But I like it in most scenarios I’ve been finding myself in lately, especially this one.

I didn’t want to write. That’s ok. I’m not going to force it.

So here I am! Giving myself some grace. Feeling like I want to write. And feeling some inspiration from a new friend who has a lot of discipline in her writing practice.

I have discipline in a lot of things yet seldom in writing. Part of me knows it’s because I tend to write most when things feel hard and -- to be honest -- this past year or two have generally felt so good. For that, I feel grateful. But I want to get better at writing through everything, especially all of those good moments.

I’m going to start here for now: short-form. Any topic, in any format: it could be an essay, a list, a poem. Once a week. No more than 20 minutes of fuss over syntax or word choice (an advanced apology to my professors who taught me that true, good writing is rewriting — I know this to be true, and I will return to it one day).

What is daunting to me about the letters I’ve written in the past is the length and my need for every single aspect of them to feel perfect. I do this with everything -- set the bar high, do it well, over and over, until I begin to hate it. But I imposed those requirements on myself when I started this, and so, I can break myself free of them just as easily. Or at least, I’ll try. I won’t let writing become something I hate!

I’m not even sure I really say anything at all in my writing below (though I think it somehow connects to this prelude), but it felt good just to write something that will transcend my journal. Thank you for being here as I change this into something I enjoy again.

The writing

I’ve been biking to the beach. It forces me to pack light -- a towel, a hat, water, sunscreen, and a book. It eliminates the fuss of finding a parking spot on beach block. And it forces me to slow down. To take eight minutes away from distractions. I park my bike, never lock it, check the tide chart and set up as close to the waterline as I can. I’ll sit and swim and walk for a few hours before packing up, biking home, hosing off, and waiting for the sun to set so I can return to the water for a few more minutes.

This is one of the few routines I’ve had this summer. There are Sunday morning farmer’s markets with my dad, walks with my mom after dinner, Tuesday afternoon calls with my college friends, daily watering of the vegetable garden, and biking to the beach every day.

While I typically reach for structure and routine, I crave it less in the summertime. Maybe it’s the longer days, the persistent sunshine. The small town I retreat to and lack of distractions in proximity. Less responsibility, more alone time. My dad always says that when he crosses the bridge, driving down the causeway into Avalon, the days vanish. He can’t distinguish Tuesday from Wednesday, this week from next. He feels lighter, worries less. I understand.

In any other season, I move quickly from one activity to the next, often doing many at once. I’m told by those who know me best to get out of my head, talk less and listen more, commit to a few less things. This version of me hates wasting time and burning daylight -- lingering in bed, long showers, napping. I worry about showing up late and getting hurt and always having plans and locking all the doors.

But in the summer, I linger -- in my bed in the mornings, in my shower after a beach day, by the water at sunset, on the couch with my parents, at the dinner table after eating. I stare when I should move on -- at the sunset, at the moon, at the waves. I stay up later than normal so I can talk to my sisters on the deck. I nap on the beach. I dive into and jump over the waves past the break. I take longer to get ready, to make dinner, to finish books. I’m slower to anger. Quicker to gratitude. I show up a few minutes late. Talk less. Play more games. Eat ice cream every night and think little of it. Leave the house in a bikini -- no pants, no shoes. I walk instead of drive. Leave the windows down in my car when I park. Leave the doors unlocked. Make fewer plans. Wear less makeup. Let my curls stay.

I have embraced my structurelessness in earnest this year. This summer was one of my favorites in recent memory -- I spent every moment I could in my favorite place in the world. Trite, but true. I go searching and searching, traveling across the world for something better, yet I haven’t been able to find anything I like more. I feel equally content and concerned that the Jersey shore is my favorite place on earth. But I digress. I spent this summer with my parents, I got to show my best friends the place I love so dearly, I laid around most of the time, I made very few plans each week, and biked to the beach each day. My flip flops are tearing, my earrings are tarnishing from the salt, my baseball caps are worn, my beach bag is a mess. My skin is clear, I ate peppers from my garden for dinner last night, and had a few hours to catch up with friends today. I walked slowly through an afternoon summer shower and saw the rainbow descend over the dunes. I spent every moment of daylight in the sun. I’m the tannest I’ve been in a few summers -- almost the shade I used to be as a child.

Maybe that’s what it is. Summer makes me feel like a girl -- the one who begged her mom to go to the beach early every morning, committed to odd crafts and built pulley systems with beach buckets off the deck when she was bored, wasted a few hours on her boogie board, touched the jellyfish on the shoreline and collected periwinkles in a water bottle. Fell asleep to the sounds of dice striking the kitchen table, sliding doors opening, glasses clinking, and my siblings laughing. Waking to birds, the waves, and my dad’s singing.

When I was younger, all that mattered in summer was that I returned to Avalon. I knew the ocean would be there, for it never leaves, and how tired it must be. I knew Kohler’s cream donuts and Circle Pizza and bagels from Isabel’s and the pottery place in Stone Harbor would remain. Summer after summer. I knew family would be there. That the house would be full, that the diagonal light through my blinds would wake me every morning. And that each day would be whatever I wanted it to be. I would have no obligations except those I had to the sun and to the water.

This summer, I felt that again. Many things were different -- I’m older. I graduated college and left a place I once hated that I now long for, parted from my best friends, moved to a new city, started my first job. Family comes around a little less -- my nieces and nephews have sports and friends and summer camp, my siblings have work and my nieces and nephews.

But this summer -- August -- feels just like it did when I was little. The weather has cooled off. The sun is more golden during the day, pinker at night. I can throw on a sweater to stargaze after dinner. The sea is warm. I feel carefree, yet I feel the impending responsibilities of fall. I feel summer being left behind. That sadness and the longing for next summer when everything will be the same as it always was. All that remains. And I presume it always will.

As summer falls into autumn and a new season of life begins, I want to take pieces of this version of myself -- the one that’s a little more carefree, a little more open, the one that summer is lucky to have. I want to introduce her to more people! I think you’ll all like her. I’m not sure how I’ll do it, because that version of me tends to vanish with distance from the water. But now feels like a good time to start.

I’m going to see you next week, probably. But also maybe not! And that’s okay. I hope you think so,

Sydney

I spent the first day of 2024 at the beach. Fireworks were set off while the sun was setting. It was a beautiful pink sky, a perfect ending to a day – a year. It was the perfect start of a new one. I didn’t know it yet, but 2024 would be one of the best. I hope I feel the same way a year from now.

I’ll spend the first day of 2025 at home. Hopefully, I will lay on the couch and read some of a book and watch a movie and go for a walk. I will play games and cook dinner with my parents. And I’ll spend some of the day writing about what I want 2025 to look like. This year will be different, because I don’t know where I’ll be at the end of it – where I’ll be living, what job I’ll be doing, what new friends I’ll have, and which old ones I’ll miss.

Entering into a year of unknowns makes my head spin and my stomach nervous, but mostly because I hope it lives up to 2024. There is a lot to thank this year for. I suppose this is a good time to do just that.

“Nothing makes me more aware / Of the goodness that I've seen / Like being absolutely terrified / The future can't compete” (Olivia Barton, “White Knuckling”)

Thank you, California. You were nothing I expected you to be and everything I hoped you’d be. You showed me some of the greatest joys: the mountains and the beach coming together, the winding hills and canyons, great food, that a gloomy morning can turn into the perfect afternoon, time in traffic to listen to new music, the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen, farmers markets. I loved this summer so much and I think of you every day

Thank you to airplanes and cars and trains. You get me where I need to be — back home, to friends, cities old and new

Thank you to my housemates who wrote me poems and stuck them to the fridge, who cooked me dinner when I was running late, who turned on the alarm system at night because I can’t sleep otherwise, who let me talk for too long too late into the night, who lit the candles in the living room and turned off the big light because you know the overheads drive me wild, who reserved the couch for my crying that one week, who listened when I wouldn’t shut up about an assignment or about a boy, who had dance parties with me at any time during the day, who picked up paper towels when I forgot, who made cookies and watched movies and played pickleball and had me laughing and hosted parties and made the house feel like home. I’ll be so sad when it’s all over

Thank you to my best friends. I hope we know each other forever. There are few things in this life that I appreciate more, and even fewer I love more. I hope you know that

Thank you, Wake Forest. I’m trying not become too sad that this is my last semester

Thank you to lamps and candles. As has been mentioned, I hate overhead lighting

Thank you to my journal. You are always there when I come back after too much time. And to the notes app on my phone. I am always confused by what I write in there late at night or at a red light but it often turns into something I’m happy with

Thank you to my bedroom at home. You are perfect to me

Thank you, Avalon. Every time I travel, I think maybe whatever new city it is will be my favorite place. It never is

Thank you, ocean

Thank you Gracie Abrams, Billie Eilish, Beeson, Pinegrove, The Japanese House, Joni Mitchell, Charli XCX, CSNY, Simon & Garfunkel, Clairo, Big Thief, Adrianne Lenker, Dijon, Flyte, Taylor Swift, Nina Simone, Hannah Cole, Samia, Role Model, Maggie Rogers, The Beatles, Mk.gee, Bon Iver, Lizzy McAlpine, Lana Del Rey, Phoebe Bridgers, Suki Waterhouse, Searows, Mt. Joy, Alix Page, Bob Dylan, Billy Joel, and Olivia Dean. I spend so much of my years listening to music, and I’m glad that during this one, it was yours

Thank you, Kate and Lizzie and Payton. You welcome my song recommendations and tell me what you think. More importantly, you always seem to send me a song I need. Sometimes I look at my playlists and see each of you reflected in them

Thank you, sun. I love the way you peek through windows and how you make the ocean look and how you feel on my skin

Thank you, hats. I spend far too much time in the sun to live without you

Thank you to everything that made me cry this year. Everything that made me angry. I imagine in a few years I’ll be even more grateful for it all

Thank you, Joan Didion and Mary Oliver. My copies of your books are tattered. The covers are falling off, the margins full. One of the places I love to be most is caught up in your words. I think in sentences you wrote

And thank you to William Faulkner, Nella Larsen, Emily Henry, Kate Chopin, Elizabeth Winder, Sheila Weller, Emma Cline, Maggie O’Farrell, Audre Lorde, Chloe Williams (who writes stunning gratitude lists), and Sylvia Plath. Your writing kept me great company this year. And thank you, Amanda Petrusich. I read everything you publish and I dream about having the kind of knowledge about music, finger on the pulse of what good music sounds like, and handle on writing about it that it seems to me you have in abundance. And thank you, Frank O’Hara. I wrote a paper about “Having a Coke With You” this semester and have since memorized just about every word and where each line breaks by now. It’s a brilliant love poem to me – I can’t really describe why but sometimes I think that inability to explain is what makes things brilliant

Thank you, concerts

Thank you, pilates and cardio dance

Thank you, movie theaters. There is nothing quite like seeing a new film in the theater

Thank you to my white t-shirts, favorite pair of jeans, sneakers, and sweaters

Thank you to Architectural Digest Open Door videos, Vogue Beauty Secrets, every video where an artist breaks down their song or a director makes notes on a scene, SNL, The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, playlists of every Oscars and Grammys acceptance speech to ever exist, Elle’s Phoning it In, Role Model on Jake Shane’s podcast, and every other video I adore. I am chronically on YouTube, and I am so happy about it. Special thanks to Brooke and Connor. I joke about how I talk like you and how obsessed I am with the podcast but there is truly nothing like opening my computer to a new episode on a Thursday afternoon after a long week. And I mean that

Thank you to thesauruses and em dashes. My papers would be half as good without you

Thank you to my professors. I feel lucky to learn from you

Thank you, strawberries and pineapple and zucchini and potatoes and asparagus and those cherries that they only have in California and cheese and fresh loaves of bread. And chocolate chip cookies

Thank you, Hayley, for our weekly calls. And for your kindness when I have to reschedule most weeks. For talking to me about papers and books and music and movies. I’m grateful for every minute spent talking about memories from growing up and musing about the things we’ll do when we end up in the same city again one day. Fingers crossed

Thank you to my family. Every moment I’m away, I miss home because I miss you. I don’t know what else there is to say and sometimes I think thank you are the only those two words I can say because no words will be enough

Thank you, especially, Avery and Hadley and Colton and Maya and Peyton and George. One of my favorite things to be is your aunt! I hope you always act excited when I come home

And thank you, especially, to my mom – we made memories in seven different states this year. I hope we do it in eight next year. I love exploring with you more than I love most things. And especially, to my dad. I love music because of you and I’ve loved sharing playlists this year. I hope one day you’ll like just one song I send you

Thank you, for reading. Even if you don’t, I think these will all be fun for me to read back one day and that is enough to write them

I hope you have a lot to thank 2024 for and I hope you are entering the new year, like me, with gratitude and a little bit of fear, too. Happy New Year! I hope I’ll see you soon

Hi, how are you?

I wanted to tell you about my friend, Kate, who texted me this on the first of the month. 

I told her she shouldn’t worry, that attention is a type of love and gratitude. That her being present while in Vermont was more than enough. No hug or “thank you” needed.

I believe what I told Kate is true, that spending time in or with a place is a gentle thank you. Writing about a place, taking photos of the landscape, exploring its entirety, sitting outside and listening to the sounds lets a place know you’re grateful for it. I truly meant it – not to think much about the logistics of gratitude to a place that can’t really receive it – but all of August I hadn’t been able to forget her message.

The other day I was sitting on the beach — the place I most often struggle to know how to thank — and I was watching the waves grow closer and closer to me as the tide came in. Billie Eilish’s “WILDFLOWER” was playing in my head. You know that moment when you really listen to the words of a song for the first time, even though you’ve heard the song a million other times? I love that feeling. Anyway, I heard “I know that you love me, you don’t need to remind me” and I thought about how funny of a line it is. It sounds so profound and affectionate, but isn’t the act of telling someone you love that you love them secondary to actually loving them? Yes, but saying “I love you” is kind of the whole point, it’s to remind someone of what we really feel, love. I thought of Kate, and of gratitude.  

It’s a similar thing, I realize. Writing, taking photos, exploring, sitting outside and listening all mean a lot, but what if I just stood somewhere and said “thank you” to remind the place that my acts are of love. 

So I need to fix my response to my friend. Kate, next time, you should stand in your favorite place in Vermont. I’m imagining you in your yard, barefoot and facing the sun, whispering “thank you” just quietly enough for the birds to hear and for your gratitude to soften through your feet and into the earth. I tried it before I left the beach this month, and I think it might’ve worked. 

That day Kate texted me, August started. It began with a goodbye and a thank you to California. These past few weeks, I’ve grown to miss it. The mountains and the sunsets, the farmers markets and canyons, the PCH and Sunset Blvd, the beaches and even Hollywood. 

After landing back on the East coast, I found myself in Avalon, which is my favorite place to spend August. Frankly, I don’t remember an August where I wasn’t near the ocean. I saw both sets of cousins and more friends than normal. My parents and I went to the movies twice. We ate dinner on the deck and watched the bay meet the sea under the bridge. Avery and I gave each other makeovers. Most days were spent on the beach looking at my toes beneath me and the jellyfish around me through the clear ocean — the saltwater had warmed to perfection. I always forget how easily I fall into routine there, settling into how every summer day used to be. Slow mornings, long days on the beach, and sunsets over the inlet. 

I missed a lot this past month. I missed how the sun used to look through the trees on the street where I grew up. I missed when my nieces and nephews were babies even though it’s fun to see them all growing into their own people. I missed Sundays at home. I missed dancing. And sophomore year. I missed painting pottery with my dad and collecting shells with my mom. I missed my childhood best friend. I missed this one pair of jeans that doesn’t fit me anymore and a ring I accidentally broke in the spring. I missed my dog sometimes and how summer used to feel when I was younger. 

I even began to miss things I never had. Like Los Angeles in the 60s and 70s. The good stuff, at least. Driving through the hills with friends and wearing long skirts at rock shows. I missed playing on the beach with Jenna and Charlotte in elementary school. And how it used to be when me and my siblings were all in high school together. 

August always feels nostalgic. It’s a month that comes too soon and goes too fast, especially near the water. 

We spent some time this August preparing for a storm. The waves in the middle of the ocean were rough. White caps. I tried to count them but I gave up. Surfers by the jetty. Not worth trying to count. 

Well, I had been swimming in the ocean that weekend, watching the surfers to my left and dodging the skate to my right. The water was warm and clear. The rip currents were strong, signaling the impending storm. I like to dive through the waves just before they break. When I’m under, everything goes silent. Then I gasp for air as I break the surface, the sunlight drenching my skin. I’d stay out there for an hour. As I was wading in the water that weekend I wondered why the ocean, powerful and gigantic didn’t sweep me off my feet, suck me into the storm brewing within it. I don’t understand it. But I had stayed afloat, swimming contently. The storm never came. And I got an extra beach day. Thank you, ocean. 

I spent the last week or so of August moving into school for my senior year. Everyone around me keeps saying they can’t believe it, and I get it because I can hardly believe it.

This year will be strange, I imagine a lot will change. But it will also be everything I want it to be. It’s already shaping up to look like a lot of walks on my favorite trail, wine nights with friends, study sessions at my favorite coffee shop, football games, and staying up too late. Thank you, college. 

This is my second month doing this casual letter-like style. School is busy and it’s less pressure, but keeps me writing. I like it for now but who knows what I may like by the time next month is over. Listening to a lot of “Wake Me Up When September Ends” in the meantime.

See you soon xx

Sydney

Hi. How are you? July flew by. 

It started at home in Avalon. It felt good to be around family. We squeezed in a noon to nine beach day, afternoons by the pool, sunset walks, bike rides, wiffleball games with the neighbors, and fireworks to celebrate the Fourth. The island was crowded but our street was quiet, like usual. 

At the weekend’s end, I traveled back to the West Coast. I got off the plane at LAX (queue Party in the USA) and was greeted with sunny skies and temperatures in the 70s. June gloom had mostly passed, and it was quintessential LA weather. I jumped right back into work – sending schedules, drafting press releases, and crafting media lists. I went to a cover shoot and some tapings. I got to know my boss more. Talked to the assistants about work and books and music. Contemplated if it’s something I’d want to do. 

July brought me visitors! My best friend came to town. I’d only ever known LA by myself, so having her here was amazing. We didn’t do much of anything, really. We walked and talked for a few hours every day. Went out to dinner and talked. Drove around and talked. You’d think we’d have run out of things to say by now, but that hasn’t happened yet. 

My sister, niece, and mom touched down in LA shortly after. I showed them around all of my favorite spots in Santa Monica and Venice. I like playing tour guide. We explored Hollywood and Beverly Hills. We saw big houses and joked we’d move beyond the gates of Bel Air in the next few years. We had a serendipitous day in Malibu before they flew home.

The summer is, for many reasons, my favorite time of year. But somehow it always leaves me thinking. Part of it must be the length of the days – so many seconds for thoughts. And on top of that, there’s the heat which traps every little thing in its heavy embrace. Every thought hangs in the humid air until it’s dealt with. I worry a lot in the summer – it’s not because I hate the summer, but sometimes I can’t stand the space. 

July left me worried about taking enough steps every day. And worried that robots are going to take over the world. That I won’t have a job. That I'll have a job that I hate. I worried my Instagram feed looks stupid. And my shoes didn’t  match my top. I worried about the election. I worried about summer not ever feeling like it used to when I was younger. And that my kids someday will never know what it’s like to swim in the ocean because we’ve ruined it. I worried I’ll never read all of the books I should read. I worried about Sylvia Plath’s fig tree because I feel the same way sometimes. I worried my friends won’t come around as much when we live in different houses. And that I’m growing further apart from my family every day I choose to be somewhere other than home. That I’ve never listened to a Rolling Stones song and really, truly liked it. I worried that it’s gonna be hot under the covers tonight. About my split ends and my back pain. And about the amount of time I spend staring at a screen. 

It helped that in these moments of overthinking, I could walk down my street to the ocean. I remember one day it felt like a magnet from deep inside my body dragged me down to the water. I’ve always sort of had that force inside of me, and I don’t really know why. I stared at the water for a while to clear my head and the walk back was a little better than the walk there. Those moments of worrying were matched, really outnumbered, by all the good. July was very, very joyful. 

I listened to Birds of a Feather and The girl, so confusing version with lorde. Sang along to all the new Gracie songs many, many times. Rediscovered Norman f*****g Rockwell and Paul Simon’s American Tune. I’m always watching Brooke and Connor Make a Podcast. Makes me feel like I’m with friends. I read Tom Lake by Ann Patchett — eh. And a history of Laurel Canyon – interesting. I talked to that friend I was telling you about who visited me and another who met some really great friends at her not so great internship and another who just got a promotion at work and one more who’s spending the summer scooping ice cream. I can’t wait to hug them soon. I received a lot of “this reminds me of you” texts – usually sunsets or a song. Every Sunday I went to the farmers market in Brentwood. The berries just taste so much better from the produce stand on the corner. I found myself abandoning my GPS, turning down random streets, admiring pretty neighborhoods, picturing my future house and the way the light will hit the windows in the late afternoon one day. I watched most sunsets from Palisades Park. I don’t understand how there’s the beach and also a mountain and simultaneously the sun, falling behind the hills. I walked a lot – I think I need new sneakers. I experienced the heat in the valley. I saw the Hollywood sign and drove up Laurel Canyon and tried to see famous peoples’ houses through their hedges. I drove to Newport with my mom. I’m thinking of so many more things, but I’ll leave it at that for now.

August will look different. I leave LA this week. I can’t believe it. I’ll miss most everything about it but mostly the purple flowers on my street that have reinvigorated my tolerance for the color. And how sometimes I make a turn and suddenly, the Pacific is staring back at me – peeking through a few buildings or palm trees.

I’ll be going from this beach to another – the one where I started the month, and the one that taught me about the ocean and all its merits. I imagine I’ll fall into old routines – enjoy family dinners on Sundays, walk along the jetty in the mornings, and wear bikinis like they’re meant to be worn as clothes. 

Anyways, happy August. The best month of the year – Mother Nature’s magnum opus! I’m looking forward to it all – the days feeling long and staying on the beach until too late and seeing friends I haven’t seen in ages and eating ice cream after dinner and watching movies with my parents and reading a few more books and starting my last year of college, too.

Let me know how your July was, really. And what you will do in August. I plan to be back real soon with something more casual, like this. My essays are fun but they’re too much for right now. I’m sure they’ll return, but these suit me better for the time being. 

Thanks for being here xx