It’s July and the hits just keep coming. Coming out of a week of heat fever, a week under the heat dome, and I’ve just recovered from pleurisy, my body’s panicked nod to the days of the industrial revolution, breathing the hot and muggy air through inflamed lungs, a heavy chest. i misdiagnose myself for a full weekend with anxiety, but it’s a real medical condition. i take drugs for it, they work. It’s July. The season farmers quit farming. Both last year and this year, the people we think of as peers, dropping out. It’s too hard.
It’s July. Listservs are heating up about climate change and policy and land ethics. Everyone is heated. The full thunder moon comes and goes, eclipsed on the other side of the world. The neighbor weans his cows on the moon, and the screaming moos echo across the county. He’s three miles away and they sound like they’re outside my window.
What do we do? What do we do? Is the drumbeat of July.
It’s July and we’re too busy to reply to the emails. Those who do get flamed for asking questions, for being concerned. Everyone is heated.
It’s July and it’s tomato season. Finally, I get to hike out to our furthest field and plunge myself into the forested rows. The plants aren’t as big this year, but the toms are already turning and my heart breaks and reforms. The closest I feel to being religious is in the tomato field. Season of devouring. Season of burden, of blight, of blooming. I pick with my heart, and I miss my friend Annie (hi Annie) as I scour the full row of heirlooms. A sheet pan full of the half-rotted ones, roasted under the broiler with fresh garlic over pasta, the juice is the sauce. My favorite lunch.
I’ve been working on essays about climate change, responses to articles that come out that I don’t have time to respond to. Responses to people who think they know what they’re talking about, from the outside. Always from the outside. My words sit here, in my files, untouched. I haven’t felt well enough to open them in three weeks.
It’s July and I finally feel alive again. There is too much to do (always) and everyone is heated. The drumbeat marches on (what do we do? what do we do?)