Have You Heard It Too?
July Muse/Letter
“July. All sensation absent. Only magic, internal magic, your sky-blue soul.”
Velimir Khlebnikov
July dripped by, slow as honey. In retrospect, of course, it feels like summer is flying by, as it always seems to do. But in the moment, each day has passed with a sweet languor I relished in, drinking them each down like prescribed medicine for my sunken spirits. It feels like ages since I’ve written my last—and first—muse/letter, and yet here I am, somehow struggling once more to gather my hopelessly scattered words from the far corners of my mind and present them in some coherent way that does justice to these past few days and weeks I’ve drifted through.
But they are, indeed, scattered, and the idea of collecting them seems almost too daunting of a task—like trying to hear a singular voice in a choir. That metaphor feels apt, because there’s been a lot of noise in my mind these days. And I’ve spent a lot of this month toggling between drowning in it, drowning it out and trying to make sense of it, in seemingly contradictory ways. So perhaps a good place to start would be to tell you about that.
“The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence. I knew perfectly well the cars were making noise, and the people in them and behind the lit windows of the buildings were making a noise, and the river was making a noise, but I couldn't hear a thing. ”
Sylvia Plath
I began this month by escaping to the countryside. It was my first solo road trip—my first time going away by myself in any capacity. Admittedly, this concept was a little intimidating, but if anything, this year has been about pushing myself out of my comfort zone, embracing independence, and trying new things. How cliche. But still, it felt important for me to take on this little adventure. So I packed up my car, picked a playlist (more on this later), and set off.
I took the long way, as I’m known to do, down old dusty roads, with nothing but forests and mountains and fields dotted with hay bales as far as the eye could see, just my music and my thoughts to keep me company—thoughts which, I might add, made a most intimidating travel companion, as I spend most of my days avoiding acknowledging them. We might go so far as to call this a kind of exposure therapy. I’ve been practicing a lot of that these days.
Every now and again, because no one was waiting on me, I’d pull over to take in the scenery (camera in hand, of course). It was freeing, in a way you’ll only understand if you’ve had the chance to experience something similar for the first time. Spontaneous, even—if only in the way Harry Bright is, of course, very spontaneous (kisses to you if you understood that).
When I finally reached my destination, I quickly unpacked before heading to the river, unwilling to waste any precious daylight hours. I spent the next few days pivoting between exploring and relaxing—reading in the sun, wandering through small towns, perusing antique shops and bookstores, visiting farmers markets and cafes, and trying out every ice cream parlour I could find. And somewhere within those days, I found a sweet kind of quiet that I haven’t heard in a while. The cacophony slowly calmed, and in the stillness, I heard, clearly, the simple sounds of life I’d thought long lost in the noise:
a boy climbs up on a rock, declaring to his sister that he is King of the Castle and, for just a moment, he is timeless
two grandparents on a dock listen intently to the gravely serious babbling of their little granddaughter, hanging on to her every incoherent word—she won’t remember it, but I will
a hawk slowly circles a copse of trees, surrendering to the whim of the wind
two friends, somewhere on the cusp of adolescence and embarrassment, prattle on about nothing as they make sandcastles, maybe for the last time
the water laps greedily at the rocks
hollow steps on the deck of the ice cream parlour, the small-town greeting of the boy working cash to his friend, still dressed in his soccer jersey, clocking in for the night shift— “did you win the game?”
the whisper of book pages turning, unbidden, on the breeze
someone orders “the usual” at the cafe, and engages in playful banter with the barista while they wait for their matcha
the warning of thunder, as the storm rolls in under the cover of darkness
a fisherman grumbles over a scheming snapping turtle, who stands accused of stealing all his game
the lifeguard’s monotonous voice, repeating their warning about the drop off, again and again…and again
a bell clangs as a farmer calls his herd in for the night
the call of a lonely seagull, setting off across the bay
air slowly fills my lungs
Have you heard it too? That specific kind of quiet and calm? That simplicity? The inhale and exhale of daily life, the Earth spinning slowly on its axis? I’d almost forgotten the words to it, it had been so long, but my soul intrinsically recognized the tune.
But between breathing and listening, I had a few adventures too. I wandered off in search of small towns, because they’re always hiding the best antique shops. You know the kind, where the floor boards creak and glass rattles with every step, and every square inch of wall, ceiling, and table is covered in disorganized treasures, and you feel like you’re waltzing through the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts. If it’s not mildly reminiscent to the Cave of Wonders…I don’t want it. I firmly believe that the best antique shops should overwhelm you, because you have to mine to find gold. And on one sunny July day, I found myself in just such a place.
“Everything smelled of dust trapped in light, cracked leather and wayward dreams.”
Stephanie Garber
I think the things that a person gravitates towards in an antique shop says a lot about them—and it will come as no surprise to most that my go-tos are always antique books and vintage cameras. Those are the two main things I “collect”, although I am very picky about my choices. And on this day, neither hunt proved fruitful. But when those two avenues fail, I always give vintage decor it’s fair chance to entice me—some day I hope to have created a home that is filled with thoughtfully curated and meaningful antique and vintage/ vintage-inspired treasures. I’m really not much of a consumer, and I want my world filled only with things that are significant or special in some way. And so I stumbled across one such a jewel as I was carefully weaving through a dragon’s hoard of a room, filled with goblets and frames and jewellery and tools and carriages and endless other miscellaneous items.
Among them all, tucked away in the back of an open jewellery box on a cluttered shelf, a small, ornate brass wall hook, in the shape of a swan caught my eye. Oddly enough, just the day before I had unexpectedly seen two swans floating along across a pond, the scene like something out of an old animated Disney classic, and so it seemed like the perfect memento of my first solo trip. I just know my younger self would have loved it too—I adored The Swan Princess as a girl. The little hook is so dainty, but still the prefect size to hold anything from a necklace or keys, to a light robe or bag. I love unique and whimsical touches like these in a home—Anthropologie has a lot of similar, albeit modern, decor pieces—I dream of these serpent curtain tiebacks often. But this little hook is so much more meaningful because I stumbled upon it so serendipitously. When I went to buy it, the cashier told me I had a good eye because she knew where it had been hiding, but I suspect this little swan and I were meant to find each other.
“I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy.”
Sylvia Plath
A few days later, I wandered off in a different direction, towards a little town I’d seen signs for on my drive down. With a single road in and out, I found myself driving through the winding roads of a little town vaguely reminiscent of Forks, Washington (and if you read my last post, you’d know how I feel about that). All of the houses were tucked away between the trees, some with moss growing over their roofs. The forest formed a canopy over the roads, and everything was damp and deeply saturated in shades of green, grey, brown and black. Many of the properties backed onto the water—a gorgeous bay with panoramic views of the peninsula. I spotted one singular general store, a closed cafe that promised live music on friday nights, and tucked between two little beach houses, a small stretch of open beach, with a tiki-themed bar across the road, the only occupant of which was the employee behind the bar, polishing glasses to kill the time, a neon open sign glowing in the window. I got the feeling this sleepy, coastal corner of the world didn’t see many outsiders. The houses seemed settled, as though they’d sheltered the same families for years and felt no need to boast. I didn’t see many other people around—a couple was parked outside of a boat rental shack, picking between a canoe and a kayak. On the beach, two moms sat on a piece of driftwood while their two kids splashed about in the water. I kicked off my sandals, and wandered past them to the other side of the public beach, beside a sand fence that bordered the adjacent private property, and planted myself there.
It was a cool, cloudy day, one that felt closer to August than July, the air fresh, and the sky a watercolour painting of silvers and greys. The water was still, but across the bay, over the mountains, I witnessed a storm drift across a distant town, the wall of rain easily visible as it swept across the horizon. I watched it for a long while, listening to the peaceful sounds of the gulls, the bobbing of the boats, and the children laughing down the beach, appreciating the dichotomy and symbolism of the present calm and the distant storm. Feet buried in the sand, I felt content that I’d wandered to that quiet, tucked away place in the world to witness that little snippet of time. The lyrics to Zach Bryan’s song 28 come to mind: “how lucky are we? It’s been a hell of a week, but you’re all grown now.” Lucky, indeed.
“Occasionally, there are minutes that get extra seconds. Moments so precious the universe stretches to make additional room for them.”
Stephanie Garber
Eventually I left that beach, and like all trips, mine ended too soon. Still, I felt eager to return home, and get back into routine—hopeful that my newfound quiet would follow me there. This, of course, was naive. The humdrum of life almost immediately filtered back in, and though my ears still felt better tuned to find simplicity, it was easy to get swept away again.
“I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.”
Sylvia Plath
And so I did. It’s harder to pick and choose the moment from the rest of the month worth documenting here. For one, my soccer season started up. I’m not sure that information aligns with my current online presence, vintage cottagecore and dark academia themed as it is, but I would describe myself as reasonably athletic. Growing up, soccer was a pretty big part of my life and personality, and last year I decided to get back into it. And not to sound too cheesy, but it truthfully feels like getting in touch with a part of myself I’d long-since buried. As you grow up, I think it’s easy to forget that you can still have “extracurriculars” and hobbies. You can take that class, or join that team, or go to that event. Back in late winter I also started going to Pilates regularly—now I go twice a week, and I love taking that time out of my day to move and meditate. So if you’ve been playing with the idea of doing something similar, let this be your sign to go for it. You won’t regret it.
"July is hollyhocks and hammocks, fireworks and vacations, hot and steamy weather, cool and refreshing swims, beach picnics, and vegetables all out of the garden."
Jean Hersey
On the subject of sports, I also went to my first ever baseball game! This, dear reader, is shocking, because if you were to have asked me before what my least favourite sport to watch was, I’d have told you it was a toss-up between baseball and golf. I rescind that sentiment now. Sorry, baseball. There was just something so quintessentially summery about being in that stadium and watching the game. The air was thick with a strange sense of nostalgia that only comes every now and again, with certain places, holidays, seasons, events, breezes, or specific times of day. It’s almost like deja vu, the feeling that you’re encountering a memory you’ve never made. Maybe it’s the realization that someday you will be nostalgic for the moment you’re in. That’s definitely how I felt at the end of the game, when fireworks were going off over the darkened stadium, and you could just make out the players in their jerseys, leaning up against the fence of the dugout, looking up at the sky, Long Live by Taylor Swift playing over the PA system. It felt timeless, like a scene from a movie, and my mind did that little click to commit it to memory. It was so much fun, they just might make a baseball fan of me yet.
What else, what else…? (She asks knowing full well this is already the length of a novella.)
Every year my dad grows a (very impressive) vegetable garden. He comes from a long line of farmers, and it shows in his green thumb. So, this month, I spent a few evenings visiting it, keeping him company while he tended to it (read: I picked raspberries from the raspberry bushes while he weeded and dealt with pesky insects). I’ve also been enlisted as Chief Garden Photographer, which is a role I fulfill annually, and I take it very seriously, ensuring I document each vegetable’s progress as the summer goes on. So far, the most impressive is the tomato plants, which have grown up above my shoulders, and the zucchinis, which are always bountiful, but there’s also peppers, lettuce, potatoes, carrots, onions, peas, cucumbers, cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, beets, and (my personal favourite) a little pumpkin patch! And naturally I delight in gathering up what’s ripe and ready in my little basket whenever I visit. So, besides the bug bites, it’s a peaceful way to spend a summer evening. And nobody asked, but I’ll be sure to provide a garden update again come harvest time.
Oh! And I would be gravely mistaken if I didn’t tell you about the other thrift find I made this month. It is, perhaps, the greatest thrift find I’ve made yet. I’d been scrolling Facebook Marketplace, as one does, when I stumbled upon a listing that made me actually rub my eyes to ensure I was seeing things clearly. Vintage Frye cowboy boots (!). For THIRTY. DOLLARS. Excuse the capitals. But my incredulity must be articulated somehow. The woman was simply too stunned to speak. Next thing I knew I was crossing town to meet a very nice lady who didn’t know what she was giving up. I almost felt bad about it. Almost. But then I tried them on and I was cured of all remorse. Barely worn, and my exact size. Already they’ve proven to be a good purchase because all of a sudden I’m excited about my wardrobe again, dreaming up new outfits to wear with them. Plus, I’ve been meaning to get a pair of tall boots to wear when I’m out on my nature wanderings, for added tick protection. I’ve since dragged them on every adventure I’ve gone on, so of course I also have pictures to show you:
And I believe that just about catches you up. Mind you, of course, that those were the highlights. There were lowlights too. Many and—sometimes it feels like—more. But whenever I was able to shrug off the heaviness of the world, I made sure I sought the sun, and basked in it as long as I could. I jumped in the river any chance I got, and revelled in the water sluicing over me as I dove. I rolled down the windows every time I got in the car, so I could feel the wind in my hair. I picked wildflowers when I saw them and read my books lying out on the beach. I stole those moments for myself, committing their softness to memory, and tucked them away for when the harsher days come. It’s a dance I’m getting better at, as I’m learning to tune out the noise.
“I drifted into a summer nap under the hot shade of July, serenaded by a cicada lullaby, to drowsy-warm dreams of distant thunder.”
Terri Guillemets
And there are a few other ways I’ve done that this month, besides summery adventures and sports and activities, including watching some shows (old and new), reading (of course), and listening to music, so let me tell you about that (if you’re still reading this, that is.)
There was a summer back, when I was maybe 13 or 14, when my little sister and I spent weeks bingeing episodes of Gossip Girl—we affectionately reference it as the “Cucirca Summer” because we ~could have, in theory~ streamed it off of a slightly sketchy site that only let us watch an hour or so at a time, with intermittent waiting periods before we could watch again. I’m quite certain that it likely ~would have~ resulted in a virus or two on our family computer (sorry mom and dad!), but such sacrifices were necessary when we were first sailing the Blair/Chuck ship. It was a hot summer, and we didn’t have air conditioning, but we’d hide away in the slightly cooler basement, fingers sticky from an endless supply of popsicles between viewing sessions, aghast at the drama unfolding among Manhattan’s elite. I only tell you this so you can appreciate the nostalgic sentiment that comes along with my rewatching Gossip Girl this past month, now that it’s on Netflix. I’m twice as old now, with a heart far more heavy than it was that blissful Cucirca Summer, but it’s nice to return to the levity and familiarity of the Upper East Side.
Besides watching the escapades of Blair, Serena and co., I also watched My Lady Jane on Prime. If you have’t seen it, it’s a reimagined history of Lady Jane Grey, in a similar style to The Great and Reign. It’s a witty, modern, fantastical period drama full of court intrigue, magic, and romance, based on the novel by Cynthia Hand, Brodi Ashton, and Jodi Meadows. In the early days of high school I was actually a big fan of Cynthia Hand’s early work—a series called Unearthly that I devoured when I was deep in the “fallen angel” era of YA fantasy (I actually want to write a whole separate post about this era of reading, so if that’s at all nostalgic or interesting to you, do let me know!). So, needless to say, watching the first season put the book pretty high on my TBR list. I’ve already started pinning all of Jane’s outfits (her wedding dress!!??) and the more cinematic and aesthetic stills (the foggy walk through the Tower of London??) to my Pinterest, which is a sure sign that I’m wholeheartedly invested. So, if you need something new to watch, make it this—the two-leads are swoon-worthy together and the narrator is laugh-out-loud funny.
But while it’s been nice to fall into the fantastical world of My Lady Jane and imagine a happier ending for Lady Jane Grey, it’s also brought back to the forefront of my mind the true tragedy that is Jane’s story, especially paired with the infamous painting by Paul Delrouche, The Execution of Lady Jane Grey:
Forced into power, and put to death for it at the young age of seventeen, Jane’s fate is undeniably haunting. A Queen, a powerless pawn, a young girl. It’s a sad, true story that has struck a nerve with women for centuries. And this month, my mind has lingered in the spirit of it. Online, I’ve been engrossed by the discourse surrounding the article that was released about Ballerina Farm, and thinking a lot about the seeming inevitability of the death and derailment of women’s dreams. So it feels fitting that I chose this month to finally pick up and read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I started it one Saturday at lunch and finished it by nightfall—I couldn’t look away. It’s been a long time since I read a story that honest. It resonated. I think it will take a few rereads over time for me to really digest everything it made me feel, and why. Heartbroken, understood, disturbed. It was a story that was waiting until I was sitting beneath my own fig tree to introduce itself to me. I felt sad for Esther. I felt sad for Sylvia. I felt sad for women. I felt sad for myself. I didn’t know what to make of the ending. Of Joan, and of our narrator as a whole—so believable, so relatable…so unreliable. It’ll take me a while to decide what to make of that, but I suspect, if you’ve read it, you might understand. And if you haven’t, please look up trigger warnings, and approach with caution and care.
But worry not, I didn’t spend all of July dwelling in feminist dread. As promised, I also read and finished Stephanie Garber’s Finale. Overall, I really enjoyed the series, but the last book did feel like it dragged out the story a little unnecessarily. It was jumpy, slow and confusing in a way that, this time, did not feel purposeful. It no longer felt like there was a withheld mystery that gave reason to the confusion…instead it just felt like Garber was attempting to build up, or perhaps draw out, her story unsuccessfully—the ending fell disappointingly flat. I wanted intrigue and surprise, but I felt like we knew everything we needed to know by about the half-way mark, and the final solution seemed a little too obvious and simplistic. I know it’s YA, and it’s meant to read like a fairytale, but I think Holly Black’s Cruel Prince series falls into the same categories, but wields the genres more expertly, giving the requisite depth and metaphor under the guise of simplicity, as a children’s fairytale really demands. Garber’s characters seemed to go on a lot of fruitless, failed missions, and the chapters themselves ended abruptly and awkwardly. Still, I liked the characters and delighted in Garber’s descriptive prose, so I’m looking forward to reading Once Upon a Broken Heart—although I think I’ll save it for the colder months.
After that, I finally picked up The Inheritance Games. I’d read a classic and a romantasy this month, but there’s just something about summer that has me craving a bit of mystery. And while TIG did read a little young (it is YA after all), it was a decidedly fun read, and the mystery itself was suspenseful and well-paced, if not a little disappointing (and, in my opinion, obvious? I won’t spoil it, just in case, but do let me know if you agree). Regardless, I found the characters likeable, and I loved the setting—I don’t think this is a spoiler, but I wondered from the very beginning if Barnes drew any inspiration from the infamous and mysterious Winchester house, but the mention of the company within the story confirmed for me that she must have—a house that’s never finished, full of secret passages, tunnels, and nonsensical designs. What a fun setting for a mystery, especially one that’s self-aware. The use of puzzles throughout was engaging. It helped with pacing, and made it so even when it felt obvious, you wanted to keep reading to see if you were right. I’ve already started the second one, and though I’m not sure I like it as much, there were so many loose threads I picked up, and I feel driven to find out which were relevant and how Barnes plans to weave them together. If you liked We Were Liars or A Good Girls Guide to Murder, this is definitely similar in nature, if not a little more lighthearted. I’ll let you know my thoughts on the next instalment when I’m done.
So that’s been this month in reading. But when I haven’t been lost between the pages of a book or languishing in the quiet song of July—full of cicadas and the wind in the trees and the waves crashing against the rocks—I’ve been letting music fill in the silence. I thought it might be a nice little time-capsule to document the songs I’ve had on repeat each month here in these muse/letters. Although there’s likely to be repeats, these are meant to be little snapshots of myself at this moment in time, and I think the songs and artists I have on repeat play a part in formulating that. So, I’ve drafted up a little July Playlist. I spent a good bit of time on long road trips, small town visits and winding countryside drives, so I’ve definitely gravitated to music that suits that vibe, as you’ll see below.
July Playlist:
Wondering Why - The Red Clay Strays
You Should Probably Leave - Chris Stapleton
Tourniquet - Zach Bryan
Please Please Please - Sabrina Carpenter
Am I Okay? - Megan Moroney
I Remember Everything - Zach Bryan, Kacey Musgraves
Vertigo - Griff
Cowboy Like Me- Taylor Swift
28 - Zach Bryan
us. - Gracie Abrams, Taylor Swift
Home Sick - Noah Kahan
Tough Love - Gracie Abrams
American Honey - Lady A
Peter - Taylor Swift
Boons - Zach Bryan
Neon Moon - Brooks & Dunn
New Perspective - Noah Kahan
Feathered Indians - Tyler Childers
Found You First - Alec Benjamin
Bass Boat - Zach Bryan
Lose You Now - Lily Fitts
Miss Me Too - Griff
And so we’ve reached the end of July. It feels like a sleepy month, forgotten in favour of it’s more popular neighbour, the beloved August, and upon reflection, I would say I dreamed my way through most of it. The days blurred together. I think of them now, and I just see the sky, blue with fluffy white clouds, framed by the trees on each side of the pond as I lean back against the surface, the electric hum of the cicadas muffled as my ears dip beneath the surface, arms outstretched, letting the water carry my troubles for a time. It’s been muggy heat and frizzy hair and sticky skin and rainy nights. It’s been my pen scratching against the lined pages of my journals and sandy towels left out to dry. It’s been learning when to listen, and when to let the sounds drift away. It’s been sitting on that beach on a cool, cloudy day watching storms pass across the way, embracing the quiet of the shore.
“We can just let July be July, let the sun hang in the sky, clear your mind of all the things you're waiting on.”
Lily Williams
I hope, wherever you are, you can practice tuning your own frequencies to drown out the noise, and listen for those sweet little signs of life. Your own breathing, the Earth turning. The snippets of simplicity—that sweet, familiar song that is life, happening everywhere, all at once. Because once you learn to hear it, you also start to feel it—the ground beneath your feet, the wind in your hair, the sun on your face. And you remember just how big the world is, just how small you are, just how significant it all is, and also isn’t. Listen for it. It’s there. All around you, like scenes from a film. There’s a world full of actors putting on the most elaborate of shows, across the most magnificent of stages—and you have a front row seat. How lucky, indeed.
“I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and the song of crickets on summer humid nights...”
Ann Voskamp
