There’s a particular exhaustion that settles in after August. Not the clean tiredness of work well done, but the kind that drapes itself over you like too-heavy fabric, folds upon folds of undone tasks. Just being—done.
John Singer Sargent painted this in 1911. It’s called Nonchaloir (Repose), but it could just as easily be called C’est Foutu (September). Critics admire the brushwork, the silk, the gilded frame. I admire her commitment to looking fabulous while doing absolutely nothing. To surrendering with elegance.
This painting could be me, present day, after fifteen minutes in the garden. I sit down, meaning only to rest, and find my body releasing into some kind of baroque collapse. Same slack posture, same distant gaze, same silent declaration of: I’m done, good luck out there. The difference is that she’s in silk and gilt; I’m in an oversized, sweat-stained t-shirt that says I respectfully dissent,1 draped across a broken Adirondack chair missing a slat. Still—the pose is uncanny.
Meanwhile, the garden flaunts itself in one last hurrah: tomatoes splitting out of their skins, cucumbers growing fat beneath their hairy leaves, flowering vines spinning their excessive empires. My hands, which were saintly little clippers just three weeks ago, are now folded theatrically in my lap. Right now, I’m not only the gardener—I’m the fainting couch, too.
Her eyes half-open, mine too. Watching, not acting. The cosmos scatter their last fragile stars; the dahlias begin their slow descent; the basil bolts toward seed. Nothing asks me to rise.
If Millais’s Ophelia belongs to the water, then this woman on the sofa belongs to shadow and late light, to the season of surrender. To still being alive, technically, but no longer resisting. Fully reclined. Enjoying the light while it lasts.
And maybe that’s fine. Maybe September isn’t for heroic steadiness but for lying down dramatically until further notice. The body must rest. This is simply preparation for the season of yielding. For being better at languor than restraint. For saying, “yes, everything’s dying, but so am I.”
So I lie here, swathed in too much feeling. Let me be portrait, not worker. Fabric, not force. Let me recline. Let me yield. Let me enjoy the waning before the fall.
🪱 COMPOST FOR THE SOUL
The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year — the days when summer is changing into fall — the crickets spread the rumor of sadness and change.
—E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web
🐓 BACKYARD DISPATCH
The Real Coopwives of West Stockbridge
Previously, on Coopwives…
A couple of mornings ago, I opened up the coop and all the birds came hopping out in their usual feathered trickle—except for one. Yolko Ono lingered in the laying box, planted firmly atop her eggs. She wouldn’t budge. She wouldn’t even respond to her name!
I reached into the coop to grab the feeder to refill it, and Yolko let out a banshee squawk. Before I could even retract my arm, our goth rooster, Feather Locklear, came flapping back into the coop. He threw himself in front of Yolko: the Whitney Houston to his Kevin Costner.
“Hey now,” I said slowly, hands raised like I walked into the wrong saloon. “I’m the one who fills your food. I don’t want any trouble.”
Yolko and Feather exchanged a look. (Yes, exchanged—it was a glance dripping with meaning.) Then, just as suddenly, they sauntered off like nothing had happened.
Are Feather and Yolko… expecting?
The intrigue only deepened yesterday. I spotted Feather locked in what looked like a closed-door negotiation with Eggward Norton. Now, Eggward has long been—for, like, a month—the madam of this particular establishment, doling out companionship with the air of someone who knows that true power roosts. And business, by the looks of it, has been remunerative. It was Eggward, after all, who first “assigned” Yolko to Feather. Was this a renegotiation of terms? A backroom deal for custody? Or was Feather simply looking to… diversify his portfolio?
Just as I began piecing it all together, Benechick Cumberbatch strutted by, hips swinging—she knew exactly what she was doing. Both Feather and Eggward craned their necks to follow her. Was Feather’s attention already wandering? And if so, at what cost?
Yet today, at high noon, I walked out and found an entirely different scene. Feather and Yolko, tucked quietly together in the coop, sharing what looked like an intimate lunch. Just the two of them, cozy and conspiratorial as a pair of young lovers in a Parisian bistro.
The plot thickens…
🎶 BEET DROPS
Don’t Come Around Here Without Headphones
For the premier edition of Beet Drops, please enjoy this wonderfully unhinged music video by my guy Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers. Honestly, it feels a lot like my garden at night—strange, shadowy, and maybe one trip over the hose away from becoming a fever dream.
In college, my friend Vicky told me that I had a Tom Petty haircut. She wasn’t wrong. I’ve been pretty weird about my hair ever since. Anyway—love you Vicky! And Rest in Power, Tom. 🖤
🌹🥀 WHAT’S BLOOMING & WHAT’S DYING?
Blooming: Everything, but what’s new: Lobelia! Asters! Scabiosa! New sunflowers! Feather Locklear’s new iridescent tailfeathers!
Dying: hummingbird vine; the structural integrity of my garden chairs (and my spine).
🔍 DIRTBAG GARDENING CORNER
Nine to Thrive: How to be Unemployed
Step one: Stop calling it unemployment. Call it radical scheduling freedom.
Step two: Build a routine—something simple, like where you put on a hydrating face mask and patrol the garden, muttering like a wizened groundskeeper but looking like Hannibal Lecter. Structure matters, even if today’s structure is “putter aimlessly until noon; write a dirge for the earthworm’s funeral.”
Step three: Answer “So, what do you do?” with conviction:
“I’m in regenerative land management.” (I pull weeds)
“I work in early childhood development.” (I keep my kid alive)
“I’m a creative strategist.” (I feed my squash surplus to the chickens)
“I’m a writer.” (I have a Substack)
Step four: Do what you love doing.
Sort Skittles by color on your kitchen table. Draft a letter to Mars, Inc.: “Why So Few Purples?” Check your mailbox obsessively for weeks after sending. Fold a swatch of hair onto your forehead to preview bangs; debate whether bangs are appropriate at this stage in your life. Consider other hairstyles before realizing you’re happy with your hair as-is. Go to CVS and buy yourself fifteen bags of peanut M&Ms. Reassure the cashier: “Don’t worry, I got one for every person in my class!” Decide you’re writing a memoir. No, a children’s book. No, you’re teaching children. No, you’re teaching yoga.
Step five: Explore creative revenue streams.
Realize that, if you were a guy, you could donate sperm for cash. Compose a mass email to inform your male friends: “Your sperm for sale?” Delete—too forward. Try again: “Handy way to make fast cash!” Sit back and say, “You’re welcome.”
Step six: Sign up for free trials at both gyms in your area. Every day thereafter, answer your phone and tell Donna or Julio that you’re out of town right now, but you really look forward to trying out their facilities upon your return.
Step seven: Respond to the avalanche of text messages with job offers—from Costco, Nike, Whole Foods, and the IRS. Assume they got your contact info from the LinkedIn profile you forgot you had until a few months ago.
Reply all: “I’m interested! When does orientation start?”
Follow up with your Social Security number.
Good luck!!
Stay dirty,
x bex
A nod to the best SCOTUS podcast out there.
Beautiful writing Bex