When I was trying to find images that August made me think of, the first that popped into my head: August is a beach bum, hanging onto lazy summer days. And then I thought…if I had a son, I think I’d like to name him August or maybe he can become a character in one of my stories, only he wouldn’t be a beach bum at all. He would be a boy—a man who loved life, he would be active and have dreams and he would follow them and he would embrace all the seasons.

August would be the center that holds all the seasonal spokes together. That will be August’s place for me, for all the other months have a place, they bring the seasons into sharp focus, but this August, he is illusive. He is a trickster—and just as summer lingers a little while longer, with the blink of an eye, August has turned to September—the end of August harks the beginning of inward change, a slowing down, and the beginning of deep contemplation—a stir down to the depths where light becomes muted and layers of a faint glow flicker.

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