The Great Fear
~ Piera Oppezzo

The history of my self
is the history of a great fear
of being myself,
set against the fear of losing myself,
set against the fear of fear.

It could not be otherwise:
in apprehension memory is lost,
its submission is everything.

Nor could
my childhood,
ransacked by family,
permit me a stable, definite maturity.
Nor could my isolated life
permit me a less fragile thing
than this floundering among anxieties and uncertainties.

My childhood I survived,
my adulthood I survived.
Almost nothing compared with life.
I survived, nevertheless.
And now, among the ruins of my being,
something, a firm utopia, is about to flower.

For those unfamiliar with the phenomenon, “June Gloom” refers to the fog which lingers off the coast of Northern California during the summer. Everywhere else in North America is sunny and bright, but we are blessed with prolonged cool weather and overcast skies all month.

San Francisco Fog from PhotoEverywhere.com

“It is June.  I am tired of being brave.”
~ Anne Sexton, The Truth the Dead Know

This quote popped up on my Tumblr* feed today, shortly after one of the women in my writing group posted about how she felt depressed, rather than excited, about the start of summer: “I  am inexplicably sad, tired and empty, and am not looking forward to summer at all”. Most of the other women in the group chimed in with similar statements.

Aside from the overcast and chilly weather (which I prefer to bright and sunny—having off-season Seasonal Affective Disorder means that I’m happy when it’s cold and dark, and miserable when it’s warm and bright), what is the cause of the emotional state of June Gloom? Why do so many of us feel it?

The state of the world, for starters. If you even glance at the news in any medium, you know what I’m talking about. But even in years when the situation is not so dire, the June slump hits, hard.

On a personal level, my awareness that the year will soon be half over is a tremendous pressure. The days are flying by, and yet my plan for the year is not half-accomplished. According to my to-do list, it’s early April. That kind of dissonance is hard to reconcile, and the resulting stress is interfering with pretty much everything. The calendar says, “slow down and enjoy the day”, and my brain says, “But I must DO ALL THE THINGS!”

Sarah Ban Breathnach touches on this in her book of meditatations, Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy.  In the meditation for August 31, she speaks of the struggle of uncreative periods (days, weeks, months): “Often, the derailment of too many dreams can bring on a drought, but whenever there’s a dry period, there’s still plenty of Light. We’re just blinded by dark dust storms. Arid despair can often result from nurturance deprivation: not eating well, not sleeping enough, working too hard and too long without anything to look forward to.” Sound familiar?

The cultural expectations of summer encourage us to set a more relaxed pace, but our daily lives continue as usual, and we think there is no way for us to keep our lives together and also enjoy the summer. If we take a second look at things, perhaps there is a way to build some down time, some relaxation, some not-billable-but-just-as-valuable time into the day. Even just fifteen minutes can make a real difference on a daily basis.

Today, give yourself the gift of fifteen minutes to gaze out the window, or perhaps sit under a tree (without your mobile phone) or on a park bench, and just watch the day unfold. Then again tomorrow, and the day after. See if, after a week, the June Gloom hasn’t lifted, just a bit.

*Note: If you are not on Tumblr, there is no need to fret. This site is my primary blog, and I cross-post to Tumblr to reach the people who (like many Facebook users) never leave the bounds of their chosen social network.

Origami Moon
~ Colleen Redman

A snip of folded moon
opens like a swan
in a solo swim
across a paper
blue morning.

My brain chemistry doesn’t care about my privilege, whether actual or attributed. Yes, I am a white, middle-class woman with a college degree, and those things give me advantages. But my brain chemistry doesn’t care about any of those things.

I have a good job, working with reliable colleagues and (mostly) reasonable clients. I have a comfortable home. I eat well, my car runs dependably, and I am able to indulge myself with little luxuries, such as fancy soap and chi-chi tea. But my brain chemistry doesn’t care about any of those things.

My brain chemistry doesn’t care if I have a major project deadline, or a stressed-out client, or a letter from the IRS that needs an answer. My brain chemistry doesn’t care what day it is, or what time it is, or that I’m supposed to get on a plane tomorrow. One day, I’m a functional adult human being who can do everything that needs to be done, and the next day, I’m depressed and have to spend far too much time simply putting on shoes and getting out of the house. Any actual work accomplished is a bonus.

My brain chemistry goes up and down for reasons of its own. Reasons it hasn’t bothered to explain to me. Reasons that I can’t seem to control, although a few things influence it. It fluctuates less when I sleep regularly, when I’m not working 60 hours a week, and when I don’t eat a lot of white sugar. But otherwise? It does what it wants to do. And no amount of positive thinking, being grateful for my advantages, or outright wallowing in my privileges changes what my brain chemistry does.

So, to everyone who tells me I “have no reason” to be depressed, please explain that to my brain chemistry. Because I’ve been telling it that for 54 years, but it hasn’t worked yet.

Serotonin

Any Common Desolation
~ Ellen Bass

can be enough to make you look up
at the yellowed leaves of the apple tree, the few
that survived the rains and frost, shot
with late afternoon sun. They glow a deep
orange-gold against a blue so sheer, a single bird
would rip it like silk. You may have to break
your heart, but it isn’t nothing
to know even one moment alive. The sound
of an oar in an oarlock or a ruminant
animal tearing grass. The smell of grated ginger.
The ruby neon of the liquor store sign.
Warm socks. You remember your mother,
her precision a ceremony, as she gathered
the white cotton, slipped it over your toes,
drew up the heel, turned the cuff. A breath
can uncoil as you walk across your own muddy yard,
the big dipper pouring night down over you, and everything
you dread, all you can’t bear, dissolves
and, like a needle slipped into your vein—
that sudden rush of the world.