Well, it’s that time. MY TIME. September is almost upon us. August sipped away like a bottle of wine. I have always believed to my core that the Summer-Fall transition is magical.
I always associated this with the academic calendar, even before I became a teacher. We’re used to recreating ourself with each new school year as a child. This is particularly true if you were a new kid, as I often was. I haven’t yet figured out if the very tangible personas I would cultivate and try on as a child (the serious-moody-braniac, the bohemian-artist, the ditzy-best-friend-of-the-main-character—unfortunately the one that stuck the longest) were a normal part of childhood or just a coping mechanism. No one really knew me. I learned early on that I could control the parts of me I wanted to keep separate, saved for later. Maybe next August.
I think this time invites a sort of self-reflection. We love to measure things. Here’s an opportunity for a tangible goal to be set, complete with a concrete deadline! I am this person now. By the end of the year, I’ll be her. The last day of summer is like New Year’s Eve. Anticipatory, but with a hint of a sweetness lost. I feel seasonal depression most in the summer, and I’ve always known I romanticize fall to the point of devastating and inevitable disappointment. By the time the days start getting shorter, I’m ready to scratch off my summer skin and become brand new. This year, though, I’m starting to appreciate the particular splendor of the end of summer.
The end of August in Arizona means monsoon season. Flashes of lightning everywhere you look. Bright green swatches of uncontrollable weeds that look almost like a lawn. Everyone smells a little bit like sweat. The air at dusk glows bright pink. It’s so different from the rest of summer that it’s like its own micro-season. It no longer just feels like pre-fall. I’m finding myself savoring it a bit on its own.
So I’ve always known that there’s something tangible in the air about this time of year that invites change. For me, this manifests in a specific pattern of ways. This is the time when I change my hair, quit my job for a new one, uproot and cleanse and start over. I redecorate. I think critically about my aesthetic. I consider getting another degree. I evaluate the work to be done and spend insane amounts of time making lists of things I want to do, complete with estimated timelines and paragraphs about how these things will change me. But I’m one small, insignificant person, so self-absorbed that I never once stopped to wonder if this is a universal thing. What is everyone else doing in this time?
Enter Virgo Season.
Now, I don’t know a single damn thing about horoscopes. I don’t know what time I was born. I couldn’t tell you my boyfriend’s astrological sign. I don’t know any of the traits associated with the signs except for Virgo, because it’s mine. And I was always very annoying about like, obviously horoscopes are just made up of traits that everyone would read and say “Oh my God, that is SOOOOOO me.” Which, to be fair, I still think is sort of true. We’re all narcissistic enough for that to work on us. But the reason I think that is because I only ever read the virgo stuff, which might as well just describe me by name. Boring, anal, organized homebodies? Checkmate. But just because I don’t know anything about astrology doesn’t mean I don’t love seeing my friends enthusiastically share their passion for it! I kept seeing the concept of an astrological “season.” Does that mean everyone is living their Virgo season and trying to get their shit together too? Do I subconsciously thrive in this time because it’s MY season? Do I even care about any of this or am I just looking for another way to distract myself from the work I need to do? I guess I just like the idea of us all energetically being affected in some way by the stars. Is there anything easier to romanticize?
I don’t know what the point of this was other than, hi. I’m still here. Happy Virgo Season.
It is August. My life is going to change. I feel it.
Raymond Carver
TabithaTypes 