Next week, summer is officially over. However, it already feels that way here.
The leaves have not yet turned but the sky is grey.
Here in Seattle begins our monochromatic season; eight or nine months per year, we live under this grey-wool sky.
Then summer hits and it’s like coming out of the Dark Ages.
Everything is golden. People don’t wear a lot of clothes. People smile for no reason.
The other day, walking down the street wearing a skirt, I looked down and noticed that my legs had a grey sheen, as if I wore an iridescent hose. But then I realized, “Nope, that’s actually my dead skin flaking off.” Attractive.
And suddenly, I don’t want to do anything but spend my weekends wearing fleece and stretchy clothes with elastics and no buttons. I look into buying a crock-pot.
Depressing Antonioni films are “comforting.”
Perfect writing weather!
And in this in-between time, if such a thing exists, I’ve been the most productive that I’ve been all year. I’m working on an almost-final draft of my novel. I’m sending stuff out for publication. I’m updating my resume. I have my beloved writing group with which I work on short stories. I write at least five out of seven days per week!
I haven’t written this much since graduate school. Where did I get all this energy?
And in some ways, the economy.
I grew up in a time of infinite possibility. (Children could grow up to be yoga teachers!)
And now I often feel stuck. I don’t have the money to go anywhere or move. I just have enough to pray that I can keep my job and work diligently at what I do. Because I don’t have any illusions about my mortality, all I have is my self and the work that sustains me. All I have is this.
And vitamins, people. I swear by them.