I let Henry outside for some air while I, too, try to catch a breath. It hasn't been a particularly productive day—I doubt it will be for what remains of it either.
It's almost August, the thought flashes through my head. I tense my jaw as it sends a stinging pulse through my body—the fading exuberance of summer beginning to give way the growing shadows of winter.
Breezes sweep through. The cottonwood trees outside my house rustle and sing, while rush hour traffic slowly picks up just beyond the tree line. It's hard to tell which is which. That duality between peace and unease is where I often find myself. Though I know, intellectually, everything will work out just fine—career, financial, personal and whatever else—worries and anxieties still creep in, like relentless ivy vines climbing the cottonwoods.
I watch the cottonwood leaves dance in a sea of verdant green. A handful yellow ones catch my eye. Are they turning already? Or did they hold on through last winter?
July 30, 2025 at home in Bothell, WA