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Autopilot

Posted 8/19/2013 5:12pm by Shiloh Avery.

Nathan wearing a winter hat in August
Nathan bundled up in August!

August. The eighth month of the year.  Akin to augere to increase.  Usually that means an increase in temperature.  But this year it seems to mean decrease in that department.  Gretchen left us last Saturday to move on to higher education.  So now we are three.  So August, this year to us, means an increase in workload. But August also means for me a shift to auto pilot.  By this time in August, we’re nearly finished sowing the fall crops. My computer no longer lists an impossible array of tasks to accomplish, so we adjust to blindly plugging along, following a measure of routine.  By this point, we’re in a groove with each other.  We move in graceful arcs around each other in a semblance of a dance we could do blindfolded.  I have more and more days where my mind just draws a blank.  I don’t mean stupidly (though I have those days too), but comfortably:  days when you just can’t find anything to fret about.  Perhaps it’s some sort of resignation, but it feels more akin to acceptance.  Where things are just set in motion and you refuse to worry about them anymore.  I’m having one of those days, well, weeks, maybe even months.  I am aware, somewhere in my conscience, that there is still some scrambling around left to do, still some large projects looming, but I can’t resist the ease of cool evenings, open windows, and the front porch.  It’s an alluring lullaby, the end of August.  More and more fields trade in their feverish reproductive fervor for a simple cover with no expectation other than to hold onto the soil over the winter and hold onto hope for the spring.  Even the buckwheat with its whirring metropolis of insects scrambling to store enough sugar for the winter season sounds like a sigh.

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