My great-aunt Mary used to read tea cups when she had visitors. Bubbles on the tea meant money so we scooped them up and drank them. If the leaves at the bottom of an empty cup looked like a chair, a friend was coming to visit. If the leaves formed a bridge, you would soon be going on a trip.
To me, August is like reading tea leaves. Life is in the future. In August I simply continue what I’ve already begun, or I wait: for rain to soak my garden, for time to refresh my brain before I start the next draft of my novel, for school to start in September.
But waiting isn’t easy. I want to move, progress, stride into the next episode, but for some reason I never do, in August. I can start projects in July and September but not August. I have begun trips in July and September, but never August.
I would love to change that, but I can’t think of a single thing that fits the bill, that will cool the jets of restlessness that shift me from chair to window, from library to gym, from office to trail. Why can’t I do what I do all the rest of the year and just get on with it?
Because it’s August, that’s why.
Do you have a hiatus month? What do you suppose hobbles us?