The end of summer

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Hey, Creator.

It’s the end of summer here in Tennessee. One kid goes back to school this week and the other shortly after. The boy is excited, and the girl is sad—like all of us are about one thing or another. I am writing this on a new app that was recommended when I signed into my recently purchased laptop. I am excited about the promise of new work on a new machine; it feels like a fresh start. Nonetheless, it took me a week to open the box, because my old computer suddenly started working again and in spite of the keys falling off, it seemed easier to stick with the old than start with the new.

Until it wasn’t.

Last week, I delivered two manuscripts to two different publishers—ghostwriting projects I've been working on for the past six months. These are two of five books I will write this year, and it felt good to cross the first of many finish lines. Whenever I am working with a first-time author, I have to remind them that when you deliver a book, you are not done; you are simply crossing a threshold from one dimension of publishing into the next. It's like a new season of Stranger Things, reminding us that life is not what it seems and there’s always another demon to vanquish, each more daunting than the last.

This weekend, I met a friend for drinks and woke up the next day feeling worn out. I spent the greater part of my Sunday in bed, watching videos and weaving in and out of various states of consciousness. Eventually, I got sick of my malaise and went for a bike ride, finishing the night with some weed-pulling and a sunset snack of berries and freshly whipped cream. These days, the simplest pleasures are the most significant. My body creaks in surprising ways, and one of the great rewards for a good day’s work is a hot bath. I struggle to read the words on my screen so I keep bumping up the font size to make it legible. I swear these newfangled devices just keep coming in brighter and more confusing packages, all of which I find unnecessary. People ring my doorbell unannounced, trying to sell me things, and I gently but persistently close the door saying, “No, thank you.” It seems I am getting old.

My kids are growing up fast, acting in ways that seem oddly mature to me. I find myself surrounded by older men and women who say all kinds of things that used to make me audibly groan, except this time I am in on the joke, and it is pure delight to rankle these “youngsters.” In their cockiness, they don't know half of what they think they know, and it’s a small thrill to watch them pretend. Meanwhile, we forget most of what used to make us foolhardy, and we giggle with delight as we embarrass our tweens and teenagers who are playing adult. In these moments, I feel closer to my father for some reason. Youth, they say, is wasted on the young; but it seems we all are able to reclaim our innocence at some point. Once we are done with the charade, everything old eventually becomes young again.

My friend Rich (who is a decade or so ahead of me) swears he was born into the wrong generation and has an earnest desire for novelty that I find winsome. He told me recently how excited he was to learn a new skill—writing and designing his own book from scratch (in collaboration with his daughter)—and I could feel the vibrancy in his voice. He sounded more alive than I felt. Age may be a number, but maturity comes with awareness. His new book about creative work, by the way, is a gem. One of my favorite quotes from it is, "There’s a science to magic, and a magic to science." Maybe that describes what I'm learning. Everything old is becoming new again, and what once seemed foreign is now familiar. As above, so below—and all that.

The other day, I took a detour from my scheduled route home to go to the park and make a few phone calls. There, I sat on the grass and watched the clouds move across the sky. It's no great exaggeration to say that I never really noticed them before. Now, I understand Moses. The shoes came off, as did almost every care and worry I had. Nowadays, I get little enjoyment out of the grandiose achievements that used to drive me. I enjoy life's little pleasures that I never took the time to notice.

It's the end of summer, and just like everything, it's all fading fast. This was a time that used to make me sad. Back to school, I'd think. Goodbye freedom, hello schoolwork. But now, it feels different. I look forward to the cool evenings and falling leaves, the crisp starry nights and browning patches of grass, the smell of the cold coming in. What is no longer will be; and what once was will come again. That's how it always is. My dad used to say the hardest part of writing a song was coming up with the ending. One of my writing mentors recommends that when you are coming to the end of your latest project, the best thing to do is immediately start something new. And of course, we should do just that, because that is the way of things.

Tomorrow, I send my kids back to their mother for the final full week of our summer schedule. And as I prepare for a trip up north where autumn comes early, I glance up at the wooden sign above our bedroom threshold: Thinking ‘here goes nothing' could be the start of everything.

Nothing is ever truly over. And nothing will ever be this way again.

Jeff

P.S. How are you enjoying your final weeks of summer? Reply here and let me know. We’ll have a new podcast next week for you to enjoy. It’s a doozy and has taken us some time to edit and get ready for your listening ears. It’ll be worth it!

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