Slouching Toward Rigour
August, and other words. Notes on change.
August. August. August.
That word, a relic of Latin's augustus and French's auguste, both meaning "esteemed" and "venerable." The essence of that word, specifically that latter descriptor “venerable,” finds its echo within my own perception of August.
The month always possessed a unique value for me. It signifies the ebb of summer’s surging tide, the replacement of the blazing sun that ruled throughout May, June, and July with a softer sun. The air alters its flavor, trading sweetness for a savouriness that mirrors the sun's evolving from a fierce inferno to a soft ember. Apt descriptors for a month that is punctuated by change. Change in all realms, of all sorts.
I know summer means different things for different people but August feels as a sort of meeting point, a common ground for all. Where time espouses a more leisurely cadence, acting as a waiting room in which we can reflect upon the summer past and savour the sweetness of the warmer months. For me, summer meant work, but it also meant seeing my family, listening to Erykah Badu, cutting my hair off, and having an iced capp whenever I could.
August. August. August.
The rhythmic repetition of the word carries with it a gentle reminder of transition, of the gradual shift that this time of year encapsulates.
“Venerable" takes on new meaning in the context of August. With its transformative beauty and its gentle nudges toward change, this month indeed becomes a revered period in the cycle of the year. It's a time to honour growth and acknowledge the passage of time.
To take a mild departure from the serene and serendipitous, I would like to confess August is a month of extreme anxiety. Highlights of the month include: spending the former half in blissful ignorance of the summer’s end eerily approaching, and spending the latter half-drenched in existential dread about the (academic) year ahead. Ambitions and goals swell into an unrealistic yearning for perfection; this swelling is a physical one, that expands in my throat and often gets trapped there inhibiting on my ability to breathe. My heart races. New year, new classes, new professors, new friends. New workload (this one twice as much as the last), new… what else? I cannot bear to think about what other new things life has in store for me. New is by no means a positive word to me, standing in stark contrast to the word ‘venerable’. My definition of New carries connotations that frighten me so.
With this added context, the picture of Summer is painted more so as a gnomic haze. Did it happen, did it not? What does that matter anyway?
Summer carried its own brand of existential dread as well, with the hottest days ever recorded standing under the spotlight of its trademarked blazing sun. Climate change is growing more and more undeniable, the record heat gracing us like a slap on the face, as the world reaches a stage of global burning with no intention of stopping.
August, August, August.
Rhythmic repetition is now replaced with a startled staccato. What meaning does the word carry now? Does it mark transition from a blissful summer to a rigorous autumn? Does it allow us to retreat into a cave of ignorance as we struggle to convince ourselves our earth is not burning because the wind still gives you chills and the leaves still turn brown? Was Summer anything but a farce?