I Know It’s Summer When I Stop Writing

I once wrote how I knew it was winter.

Perhaps it was time to write about how I knew it was summer. (And it really had nothing to do with barbeques and heat waves.)

It was summer when I had bursts of energy to clean and to organize—which stole not only my writing time, but my impetus. Where I learned to brew kombucha, and pick roses and plums from my backyard. It was summer when I only grumbled and ranted about my teenagers playing World of WarCraft and Minecraft non-stop for hours on end, rather than giving them time limits—because what else would they do while I was massaging clients, taking yoga classes, or working in the garden?

Summer time was for not thinking big thoughts, stuffing them instead while I busyworked through the day, taking advantage of the light. The skin-peeling consequence of that was that if I didn't allow myself to think about them, I couldn't write them down either. And then THAT started a cycle of writer's block.

I knew this pattern.

I breathed it.

At least twice a year.

(I wondered if it correlated to when the seasons changed, or if it happened when my life twisted and altered course.)

Summer was for new business ventures, self-publishing books, and splashing merrily in the waves of a nine-month-old romantic relationship with my Turk. Summer was the time to break up dog fights with hoses, and walk the neighborhoods looking for those same cherished doggies when firecrackerfear compelled them to jump out windows and push through six-inch openings in fences and find their way to the other house they lived at, all by themselves.

I knew it was summer when I folded my laundry and wished that I had a clothesline to capture the scent of the sun. When ants and fruit flies invaded my compost bucket under the sink, and no amount of bait eased the swarms.

When sneezing didn't make people shrink back from your germs; It was just allergies.

I knew it was summer when my arms itched for no reason, except maybe ambient pollen. When I made jam from the raspberries in my yard. When I surprised myself with gardening prowess. I knew it was summer when doggies slept on the bare hardwood floors in my house instead of upholstered squishy green couches.

When I envied the neighbors' gardens and flower beds.

When I thought of all manner of things to do,

BUT write.

I couldn't write because I wasn't caught up with the housework, and I didn't want to leave it for another four days before I got back to it. (I cleaned in spurts because of staying at Ali's half the time.) I couldn't write because I often over-extended myself, not just in summer, but it felt like I did it more during that season. So much so that come three o'clock in the afternoon, I was bushed. Extra sunlight be damned. All I wanted to do in the afternoon was read. So I tricked myself into reading books that were "good for me." Nonfiction mostly. Or that one novel I needed to read for the Early Reviewers Club.

Summer was for looking at my knitting bag with wist and longing, because knitting was for winter days by the fire.

Summer was for remembering to stay hydrated, but then peeing every forty-five minutes until I was bored with it.

I knew it was summer when I only found out I had a fruit tree in the yard by almost stepping in the too-ripe plums on the sidewalk in front of my house.

If summer wasn't for big thoughts, it was for big PLANS. So many plans that I effectively gouged out vast slabs of writing time and just watched them fritter to the floor. Camping for a week, a conference for a long weekend, a flight out of state to take my children to their grandmother's place, and music festivals with costumes.

Summer was here when I took an art class for a day, slept with the door open because it was so hot I was counting on the dogs to scare away any intruders, and finally getting around to taking my first Spanish lesson.

I knew it was summer when I met new friends at cookouts and birthday parties. When I felt inspired to change things up. To build a chicken gate for the run that had no chickens yet. And to run yet another errand. It was a season of feeling euphoria, and then worry that the euphoria might be manic, and thinking I should probably write about it, but allow the weather and my productiveness to give me an artificial high so that I forgot about that reason I wasn't writing.

I wondered if Autumn was the season to write.