People often talk of winter being depressing: the cold, the gray, the skeletal trees. I get it. But there’s something about summer that does a whammy on me, every year, no matter how much I try to psych myself out of it.
It could be many things. One night during my freshman year at college, I dreamed— vividly—that I would die on July 31st. When that day rolled around again, I eased carefully through it, and of course, I survived. I never truly believed the dream prophesied my death, but these fears stay with you sometimes. Every July, I wane. I grow lethargic.
But August first has come and passed, and still I slouch and moan. And I’m not the only one. I’ve heard other writers complain that this past month was a tough one to stay focused and motivated. Tougher than usual. I want to do less, move less. Have I joined too many social events this summer? Maybe. Do I need a vacation, a week away?
The spooks in me should be coming out. It’s August, which begins my autumn. The Celtic calendar has always made more sense to me, because the longest day hearkens the middle of summer, not the beginning. The longest night is the mark of the deep center of winter, not the start of it. But it still feels like summer. Could this longer-than-usual lag be a symptom of global warming?
I work in an air-conditioned room. During the day, it could be any season at all, and still I gaze at nothing and think of little. This is all probably just a hundred small worries and troubles, ganging up on me. But do I fight back? No. I sigh.
There, I just sighed again.
In thirty-six hours, I’m headed for the mountains, where maybe it will feel more like fall. I will retreat. For four days. We’ll see.
Do you suffer times like these? How do you slog through?