Love List: July

four summer stories | strawberry picking | lake light

The waves were the highest I’ve seen them, and the sea, like the sky, was steel grey. Between the red and yellow flags, a lifeguard sat in a collapsible chair, watching the empty sea. I was feeling oddly light-headed and disconnected—it had been one of those weeks which suddenly and inexplicably turn—a week where things had unexpectedly and repeatedly gone wrong. Now, I found I couldn’t think clearly, and worry tightened my chest. It was hard to remember how I had felt just a few days ago, when everything had been fine, but I knew that I needed the sea

I wanted to float tranquilly, salt silky against my skin. I wanted to be still and calm, immersed in gently rippling blue. I wanted the cold to pierce my skin quietly, to find its way through to my bones. But the waves were tall and forceful: the sea was shaken, waters wild—churning like my thoughts. As I stripped to my costume, the wind blew rough sand fiercely against my skin and I knew that if I hesitated I would be lost so I ran headlong into the waves, nodding to the lifeguard who sat straighter as I passed.

My splashing feet flicked droplets up into my face and I took a deep, juddering breath before launching myself in. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes. By the time I reached ten, the sea’s touch no longer felt cold, and the tightness in my body was easing. The waves buffeted me—I rose with them, and fell again. I offered myself to the water, let it lift and lower me. A wave broke over my head and I was momentarily submerged. I spluttered, but cold, salt-laced clarity had cut through the fuzziness in my mind. I tried to melt fully into the moment. I tried to let my worries fly away, up with the circling seagulls. I tried to swim ‘like something ordinary/ something worthy of the sea’.

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Summer Brennan quoted these lines in her brilliant essay a few weeks ago. Later, I listened to Ada Límon read the full poem and found myself back in the heat of a Spanish beach in the nineties; this is a poem that screams summer. Read the poem, read Summer’s description of the poem—both are perfect.

For this month’s love list, I’m sharing more poems, books and even a few songs that—to me—scream summer: