Summer's End

This morning I sat on my front porch listening to the insistent buzzing of the bees, drinking greedily from the turtleheads, the late blooming flowers that signal the end of summer in my garden. And although the days are still warm, we have had a few nights dip into the 40’s. It’s been a welcome relief for some of us, a sign that it’s time to book their flights south for others. The first of my friends leaves next week.

Last week I was at a family wedding on Long Island. Driving home, I made it to within range of the Tanglewood radio broadcast just in time to hear Beethoven’s Ninth, the traditional finale of the Boston Symphony’s Berkshires summer. I had tears in my eyes as the chorus ended, both because of the power of the performance and because an extraordinary season of music, theater and dance was over. It was the first full season in three years; Week after glorious week I was transported by the arts.

I was excited by the contemporary pieces that began many of the Tanglewood programs, often by women and composers of color. They made me listen in new ways. After a lifetime of hearing the phrase, I finally saw a performance of Waiting for Godot at Barrington Stage Company. It was as brilliant as it was bewildering. Dance at Jacob’s Pillow Dance Festival left me in awe of the expressive capability of the human body.

When I wasn’t at one of the performing arts venues, I was attending exhibits, book talks and lectures at museums and historical sites like Edith Wharton’s home, The Mount.

Contrary to popular assumptions, many of the activities that make a Berkshire summer so special will continue throughout the winter, albeit on a smaller scale. Life goes on after the leaf peepers and snowbirds depart.

However, the summer is ending, and I feel the need to sit with my sadness. I am at an age where endings are a constant; new beginnings are unreliable. Nevertheless, I’m making plans for the fall and winter when summer will recede into memory.