Somewhat connected to this cycle of low energy is a feeling that I'm not doing well at replenishing myself. I keep putting off things that give pleasure and nothing else--so much of what I'm doing is multi-tasked and connected to an obligation I've accepted. Which is good. I need obligations to keep moving, but occasionally, I suppose I need the contrast of not-obligated. Which leads me to now, this moment. So often I want to just come and write on this blog. Tell about moments. Capture my thoughts. I used to do that more, but I feel like that kind of writing is somehow not deserved right now. I'm just too far behind. I begin to write but I have commitments. Good things, but things that feel required, and therefore more important. The writing-just-because gets put in the category of some sort of mental dessert that I have to set aside in order to be..."good." Then I remember that I'm good all the time.
Additionally, there's this thing that happens: All I really want to do is talk about the sweet soft air of June and how much I love my little garden. I love how the seasons change and how I know without a calendar that it's almost summer because the humidity hangs heavy and the fireflies come out. The green of the leaves is astonishing during the day and at night, the party lights glow in the perpetual haze. My skin feels just right for the moment--salty and sunscreened, with a shot of insect repellent for good measure. It's the sensation of summer and I actually relish it.
As I'm thinking these thoughts, I make the mistake of actually looking at Facebook or Instagram. There are posts about climate change, and this one about how the humidity is earlier and worse than ever before, and that one about the latest political nonsense. Suddenly, I feel shy about my summer-song. My childish delight in the glory of the days feels...childish. I change my mind, and sympathize about the humidity and the politics and try to be a good friend and eventually turn off the feeds and go out to my yard in the fading light. I find myself wondering if I should be concerned with more important things, or if there's something wrong with me for not hating the weather where I live, or actually fearing it.
But tonight, I will write. Just a little. I sit down under our biggest tree, a maple, and light my citronella candle that attracts more bugs than it repels. I watch the tiny things zoom around the flame. I make a little fire and the smell of the smoke is homely and pleasant. The ever-present water in the air coalesces around me and I gather my hair up off my neck to catch whatever breeze I can, even though the temperature is plenty mild. These are summer things. It all feels right.
Right now a slow, hesitant rain is falling, but the drops are getting bolder, so I may have to go in. If it rains for real, my wee fire will go out, and the party lights will take on more of a sparkle than a hazy glow. The plants will need every drop, so I don't begrudge the rain, either. I'm glad I had my evening garden moment.
This time of me feeling low and slow will come and go, like the seasons, and I'll keep getting all the things done. It may happen between naps, but that's okay. I will live out a sort of summer Hygge and allow the heat to slow me down to linger in the soft air. I will cherish these long days and not wish for others quite yet. I will enjoy the sheltering green of this forest place and not long for other views. Those are choices to make every day.