Saying goodbye to summer

On new hobbies and an end-of-season swim

The days have shifted, finally, into autumn. The clocks have changed, with evenings becoming darker, catching us by surprise at first, then beginning to feel safe and comforting; a cocoon-like preparation for the months ahead.

The summer has been long and shimmering, abundant and warm. It’s only right that the seasons are shifting now. We’re ready to let go.

It’s been an odd month, full of busy rush, the year picking up pace as it hurtles along. But two long weekends fall one after the other, and the combination of cancelled plans and the weather switching to more rain than sunshine has meant that there have been pockets of much-needed quiet too.

There have been days of pottering around my flat, enjoying having the space to myself for a long weekend. I’ve recently taken up sewing and filled the main room with fabric and pattern pieces, cutting them on a yoga mat on top of my rug, and laying them over chairs. It’s haphazard and chaotic, makeshift and far from perfect.

I don’t know what I’m doing, not really; simply making it up as I go. I buy myself a sewing machine and the familiar mechanical burr of it transports me back to hearing mum sew throughout my childhood.

It started a few months back, this new hobby. Frustrated by deadlines and tricky clients and days spent staring at screens, a chance visit to a craft shop with a friend reminded me of the joy of textiles. Pattern and texture, colour and shape. The thrill of turning something flat into something with shape. Spending hours doing something that demands absorbed focus, learning a new skill, and turning it into something immensely practical and usable.

There have been frustrations, there always are when learning something new. But that in itself feels satisfying. To work through a challenge, to persevere. To trust the process, do my best.

A swim on a long weekend at the end of April to finish a summer season of ocean swims that began with one at the start of October. I don’t come this far north often and haven’t swum near here since the early months of returning to Sydney. But here I am, three-and-a-half years on, ready to dive back in.

A lengthy drive gets me there. Through the city and over the harbour bridge, continuing north along the highway, then through the suburbs, then following a curved road around to the peninsula. There’s a creek on one side, a lake on the other, and, as I drive north, I think of how expansive Sydney is, how the built environment has spread itself up and out across the land. I’m still in Sydney, yet I feel far from it.

We time our swim with the tides, agreeing to meet at the spot where the road turns to sand. Beyond it: beach, boulders, an ocean pool formed from concrete and stone. The morning sweep of clouds drifts out to sea, the day lifting and brightening, sun warming our skin.

These long weekends have been a helpful break.

A different way of embodying time.

A reminder to rearrange the balance between rest and rush.

To trust the process.