Why is it that every year I cram so much activity into the month of July? No day is spared. Come July 1st, my family hits the ground running: we've got out of town guests and summer camps and play dates and vacations and a seemingly endless stream of activities that leaves us all breathless.
This year, I discovered the calendar had progressed to August only by accident. "You're calling to wish me a happy birthday? But my birthday's not until August. It is August? Oh. Right."
My weeds have never been happier.
Neither have my children.
Looking at them now through the lens of August, I see that they've grown taller, too (though admittedly, not nearly as tall as my weeds). Their blonde hair glistens with streaks of sun, and if you look closely, you can see the remnants of melting icecream cones and sticky-sweet watermelon juice on their clothes.
On these long, lazy days of August, I plan to do a whole lot of nothing while soaking in a whole lot of everything: the symphony of birds in the early dawn; heaping bowls of fresh Connecticut blueberries; barbecue grills and hot, steaming corn on the cob. I will linger on Rhode Island beaches as the sun sinks on the horizon, savoring the salty air and the rhythmic crash of waves.
And though I won't touch my weed garden (why bother at this point?), I will draw my family close, and together we will sit silent and still, gazing upwards to admire the stars.