August can have such a feeling of rushing, of not being at home because you’re not in the moment. Maybe for everyone on an agricultural-based school schedule, but certainly up here in the tourism-fueled North: hurry up, because this is the Last Chance for Everything.
The next jump off the breakwall might be the last of the summer. The fish and chips at the Angry Trout might be the last meal eaten on the deck perched over the water and tucked out of the wind until next year. The raspberries are drying on the canes and you might have already eaten the last plp and juicy one without even noticing the importance of the moment.
But a day spent at home, sitting on a blanket on the south slope of my yard, with a couple tarot decks and an itinerant cat beside me– this slowed time down to the Truth, to the Now.
August is August. And time just takes time, whether that feels fast or slow, enough or too little (or maybe even so rich and viscous it triggers some Protestant guilt about the goodness of your life).
It was so good to not jump ahead, to not resist the way the sun slants souch sooner than it did in June. To still dream freely with no guilt about whatever grand plans haven’t been accomplished yet.
This is a collaboration, not a fight. And it felt good to stand still and feel it for a moment.