Happy Alban Heru... Ugh.

I have never been fond of summer.  Summer has always been my weakest point of the year on all levels.  From about age twelve onwards, summers made me angry because they were the time I became a prey animal for various male perverts, and the problem was that I helped portray that role because as a non-ascetic, I wanted to be looked at by cute boys.  

Physically, summer is rough on me and I'm not sure why.  My genetic stock is Japanese from the big island (it's hot there, especially in summer), Mediterranean, and Celtic.  For some odd reason, the 25 percent of Irish/English won the war for my temperament, and the second the temperature rises above 80 degrees, my body gets upset.  There is a period of about a week that I go through where I sweat excessively.  My appetite fades away to the point where I have to force myself to eat, yet I become grumpy because I am sort of hungry.  I'm already imbalanced towards the hot and dry, and for whatever reason, the hot and wet onslaught of an Illinois summer makes it far worse.  

I like wearing my hair down, especially as middle age has given me the fun gift of emerging jowls.  There's no way to wear long, heavy hair down in the summer: it's like having a piece of wet shag carpeting on your neck.  There's also the problem of not being able to bathe in deodorant.  I know... it's called soap.  I am acquainted with it.  Back in my youth, I would bathe or shower twice a day in summer.  I still bathe once a day or I am unable to sleep -- ah, the life of a spoiled princess!  Summer brings out a zillion defensive strategies I don't need in other seasons: special footie socks to absorb sweat, hair clips, air conditioning.  

Here's Too Much Information

Hot and dry equals constipation, not just of the regular kind but of the etheric kind.  Despite the fact I don't use marijuana, in the summer I have the chronic pot smoker's pipe dreams and subsequent listlessness.  One of the reasons I don't use pot is because it gives me the urge to create.  As a creative person with lots of interests and very little time, the last thing I want is to be more creative.  Summer fills me with ideas I can do nothing or precious little about.  This was especially frustrating as a younger woman because I was not aware of what was happening.  My creative urges would get the better of me, but instead of writing, making a craft, or gardening, I would call my friends.  We would then go to Chicago by car or by train and make pests of ourselves by sitting in a café for hours.  Had we been smarter, we would have confined our café-sitting to places that weren't forty five minutes to an hour away.  

Gardening has been one of the better cures I have found for etheric constipation.  (For regular constipation, daily bouts of gentle cardiovascular exercise for as long as you can stand it seems to be the best remedy.)  Digging and squatting seems to be the astral equivalent of taking a poop: you have to process some dirt in order to get clean.  

It's a Bummer Because Summer Makes Me Dumber

I don't believe myself to be the sharpest tool in the shed in the first place, but intellectual pursuits become far more arduous for me when it is hot outside.  If you find that summer enhances your mental faculties, good for you!  It's not the case for me.  I find myself re-reading the same passage three times just to comprehend it, and half the skills I ought to have from being raised with computers magically disappear when my cellphone goes awry.

Of course you don't hear me complaining about all the fresh vegetables and fruit, including the ones grown or foraged from my own yard.  Summer does have its plusses.  The garden is absolutely beautiful this year... pictures forthcoming later this week.