Summer

Hi. 

It’s been a while*.

How are you? I hope the young, summery, promising days of July were filled with laughing and dancing around naked in the moonlight. Or maybe not. Either way, I hope you’re ok. 

July is my favourite month of the year. The beginning of summer, the fresh excitement of the sun- laden days to come, the sweet juicy peaches, apricots, Charentais melons, forest berries, the delightfully acidic and engorged lemons waiting to be squeezed. It’s the time of year when I reset, my actual New Year. Especially after the first half we’ve just been through. Last week, I was reading a commentary on Camus - as one does - and stumbled across a quote from my favourite book -

“Oh light! this is the cry of all the characters of ancient drama brought face to face with their fate. 

This last resort was ours too, and I knew it know. In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer”. 

Les Noces, suivi de L’été (1950), [Summer].

Albert Camus. 

It made me dream. More so, it jolted me awake from the slur I’d silently entered at the beginning of June, and spent a good month slumbering in.

More than ever this year I appreciate the time in France, home, sat on the sand, facing the mighty Okeanos. A delightful feeling of awe mixed with pure euphoria always electrifies me as I run for the first time to the not-so-warm waters of the Atlantic. Laughing as the cold hits, usually at sunset after a long day of driving to reach one of the places I feel most at home in. It’s the same ritual every year.

More than ever, those few minutes of frolicking, labradoring in the white foaming mousse crashing towards me with open arms, more than ever these moments washed away the muck and grime of the past few months. I ran - galloped- down the beach, a seemingly eternal run, bikini ready, feeling the sand beneath my feet go from soft, delicate and white, to caster sugar with bits of seashells, to a spongey hardness as I neared my grail. Soon,  footprints betraying my collapsing arches and strangely built feet followed me to the break, and within an instant, the water lapped my thighs, welcoming me in a cool embrace. The sky was dark, pink, orange, navy, the sun about to set. I charged through, the Titan powerfully pulling me towards his heart with a cool current, every wave crashing into me set me back. Until the depths were sufficiently low for me to dive straight under the next towering wave.

Now. You may not dance naked under the moonlight (or you might, freedom is not yet dead despite what many think) but that evening I danced, properly, for the first time in forever. A salty tango with a rumbling partner, entirely surrendered to his rhythm. Until my lips turned blue and shivers trembled through my body. 

Sitting there, wrapped in a towel (or three, bit extra like that), covered in sand from the tumult of crashing waves (I swear I have no idea how sand finds its way in some places; eternal source of questioning) I stare at the blazingly gentle passing of the torch. Boreas had picked up - or had he always been there? - and more goosebumps reminded me to layer up, fast. The urgency was immediate as the north wind pierced through the gaps in my towel, sending uncontrollable tremors down my being. 

What a simple, repetitive, hypnotising spectacle. Soothing.

This story is from the bush, the French bush, the home bush. The symbolic bush that heals the soul and sends waves of vibrant joy coursing through the body. The one that brings laughter, the one where cicadas chant in the Landes forest from dusk till dawn, from the moment their tree is hit by golden light., tangy smells of pine and wood hanging in the hot air. The one that’s enjoyed with a glass of something cool and friends as the day gives way to Selene…the personal one, whose simple evocation leaves one silently travelling back to good times spent in nature. 

Because the bush is our home**. Ecology, biosphere, landscape, planet, nature…call it as you wish.  It’s about the profound resonance of our beings in a place that feels right. Where’s home to you, they so often ask.

I never know. Sometimes, my answer, tongue in cheek - “oh you know, I’m a child of the world” with a wink and wince. Others, more serious. “Somewhere by the Ocean”; “aah I’m from Burgundy- but I’ve never lived there”. I always feel the need to specify. Because we have multiple homes and places of meaning. “African by heart” I very often stop myself from saying. Too personal, too complicated; too cheesy? “French Londoner” is usually what ends up coming out. Funny thing, the mental images that accompany these two words is Hyde Park and a matcha latte (not sure what to make of it. How very Chelsea of me). 

It’s worth thinking about it. Where are you happy? What’s home? What do you feel when you take the time to consciously be in nature?

* side-note: this is the worst chat-up line in history and should be used with a sprinkle - who am I kidding, a dollop - of sarcasm.

**it actually literally is - oikia in Greek means home, and it gave the prefix “eco”. Ecology, economy. Home.

But back to our topic. 

Summer, for me, isn’t always about African warmth. In fact, though reminiscing the Mother continent and her warm hugs, her aquarelle-like mornings and oil charged sunsets brings the biggest smile to my face, my happiness cannot sustainably come from just paying visits to Mama Africa. It has to come from within. 

An invincible summer indeed. Light and warmth that were very much needed during the lockdown, that are still needed now as most to the world fights the ongoing pandemic. A pan-demic.  I taste the words on my tongue, thinking about its meaning - something that affects all the demôs (the population) - us. But the bigger “us”. The biosphere’s population. The dynamics that occur within an interdependent system are never in equilibrium, but within all ecosystem layers, one thing is clear. We all rely on each other. It’s hard to sit, and watch, powerless, as masks plague the oceans, as poaching increases, as people avoid public transport and avoid each other….and yet, whilst some behaviours are tragically understandable - not forgivable - it’s draining to feel like there’s nothing to be done. 

There is SO much to be done. Beautiful initiatives popped up by the hundreds during the lockdown, and they still do as policies ease. Solidarity. Passion. Dedication. Drive. All of our invincible summers coming together. I’m not even talking about donating, or buying prints (though that’s good too). Energy, time, communication…resources that are necessary to move forward. Sometimes it’s just about reaching out and asking how to help.

During lockdown, more or less everything we thought mattered got cancelled, both for the vast majority of you who reached out and myself. Trips, contracts, an exhibition, conferences, all postponed or terminated, but Zoom became a powerful ally. It was a pleasure to talk about Happiness, Freedom, Desire, Being Human Beauty with those of you who joined during the philosophy discussions. At the end of the day, putting our energies to sustaining our minds, bodies and spirits is a good place to begin driving change. We saw how happiness and freedom can very much come from within, in the hardest of situations. To all of you travellers out there, to all of you lovers, to all of you naturalists, introverts or extroverts, to all of you mothers, fathers, siblings, friends, to all of you who had to find other identities within, other ways of existing: we exist as many things. Plural identities, plural homes. Humans are fascinating shapeshifters, with an adaptability that we so often forget, simply because we’ve forgotten how to out of habit. Our invincible summers are there, sometimes under layers of snow, but they’re there. 

The philosophy chats will be back, I promise. More stories (I’ve got some nice ones lined up, some fitting in the time of viral superhosts I hope you’ll laugh with and at me) and more action. 

In the meantime, please, tell me what Summer means to you. What (or where, but especially what) home is. If nature brings you any source of comfort (and nature doesn’t have to be some sort of crazy wilderness area - you know my thoughts on this). Tell me what stories you’d like to read, what adventures we can go on together from the comfort of a sofa. I’m all ears (literally - have you seen those things) and I’m all yours. 

Take care! And read Camus if you’re looking for some inspiration - you know where to find me to discuss his words until the day breaks.

Love,

Alice