I lazed around the summer house in all its earthy glory for the week after my birthday, hearing nothing but silence and somewhere, a suspended breath on the air. I learned a long time ago that when you inhale, you can pause and leave your lungs filled for a few tense and oddly blissful moments before exhaling. Why the season change--or lack thereof--in this country reminds me of a shard of some old yoga class, I have no idea. But it does.
You can feel it in the people and the community. The summer has been so strangely short and so agonizingly long that any change would be a welcome one for me, the newcomer, but then I've only survived one tough, black winter and not twenty or thirty. I may not know what I am in for. The grass is green and the trees are filled the same as they have been these past few daylight-filled months, but nature, and everyone within, are pausing. Fall isn't here. Summer isn't here. It's a suspension of season.