Standing on the sand, ankle deep in September water, the sky stretches cloudless from naked dunes to oceaned horizon. A boundlessly blue dome reflected in tidal pools – reminder of the vastness of space. Specs on specs of dust, our lives blink on and off – fireflies against the black expanse of time. 

Simultaneously, our living is everything and nothing: each moment a miracle born from impossible circumstances; amounting in the end to nothing but dust. Dark illuminating light. Light extinguishing dark. Each of us, a unique crack of lightning, a moment of full illumination eventually absorbed into the collective rumbling of human history. 

September holds so much at once: setting expectations, imagining perfections, starting again. It is the month when so many commit to being and doing better. Children reunite with friends. Yellow buses roll from stop to stop. The morning rush returns. 

Then there is the first night of cool dry air. Blankets pulled from chests and drawn over heads with windows still open – the practice of summer nights.

Beach towns empty, streets unclog, parking fees no longer apply, and dogs run free along breaking waves. 

The water is the warmest of the year with the sun hot, a yellow orb fastened to dry blue skies. September swims: a gift for those who make the oceanside their home. 

The final stacking of wood, the trimming of plants, the moving of things indoors. Summer colors (red, white, and blue) replaced by the oranges, yellows, and rustic reds of autumn. 

Gardens yield their final fruits. Apples and pumpkins grow heavy enough to claim.

Tee-shirts thicken to sweatshirts. Hats become knit. Pants grow long. Sandals morph to shoes. 

All of this change, this work of the new season, this resetting that we call September is important and inconsequential. We must take ourselves and our work seriously in order to push through the challenges, improve ourselves, grow, produce exceptional work, make art that matters, and demonstrate the impact of our living. Conflictingly, lifting our heads to take in the larger world – to wonder at the sky – is the only way to keep from being swallowed by myopic efforts buried by diminishing returns. We must ignore quantitative accolades, so we might feel the freedom to accomplish rewards defying explanation and surpassing measured perfection. We cannot be held back by the possibility of failure if engagement is the goal.

Somehow our very best comes forth when we let go of expectations, when we step back from the record keeping, the measuring, and the judging. When we accept how little what we are doing matters, then continue with our efforts inspired by visions of greatness. Our most extraordinary performances are born from the innocence of play, the carefree focus of simple immersion in the thing being done, the humility of enjoying the moment for the moment.

Joy lifts the weight that causes us to hesitate, to falter, to over-try. Joy lets in the light, manifesting in the smile that breaks through the strain of effort. There is a letting go, a surrendering to the moment that happens when we do things for the joy of doing them. When we read for the story – not to reach the end. 

The relaxed expression of the first to cross the finish line is our proof: having let go of the struggle and allowed legs and arms to work together fueled by lungs and heart embracing the feeling of running – no thought of time or distance or competition – just the pleasure of movement. The irony of not running to win and winning by running.

Only when we embrace the paradox of the miraculous nature of our existence and the insignificance of our actions are we set free to pursue, unfettered, the feeling of a thing being done well: the bed made, the word chosen, the pancake flipped, the shirt folded, the window cleaned, the note hit. Oblivious to expectations, judgments, and critiques: we forget to make mistakes. We become the thing we are doing. We become our unconditional best.

When we reach beyond expectations to grasp the essence of the thing being done, then we open ourselves for singular moments umbrellad beneath clear blue September skies when everything – for a second – feels perfect.