It’s August, and I Feel It Everywhere

I can’t believe it’s August.

Today, my mind is everywhere. Since the moment I opened my eyes, I’ve been scattered — tugged in a hundred directions. I’ve picked up my fucking phone a thousand times, only to forget why I picked it up in the first place. I told myself not to open Instagram while opening Instagram. It felt surreal. Then I scrolled… got distracted… scrolled again… and eventually landed in that familiar mix of disgust — with myself, with the world.

The world.

(Quick detour: There are so many young birds in our backyard right now. Brown thrashers, house wrens, fledgling sparrows and finches — all awkward and loud and beautiful. One little wren hit the screened porch this morning. It stunned itself and I nearly cried — but then it flew away like nothing had happened. Resilience in feathers.)

And still… the world.

There’s just too much happening, and I feel too aware of it all — while also knowing I’m barely aware of it all. The grief, the anxiety, the overwhelm. It’s been there for a while now, humming underneath most days. But today feels even more fractured.

Which is strange, because I’ve actually been feeling better. I’ve been doing the work — trying new practices, building rhythms, healing. I’ve felt more steady. So today feels like a setback.

Or maybe… it’s something else.

When I woke up this morning, my head felt foggy, my sinuses were heavy, and my thoughts were racing. I sat down to pee (yes, this is where clarity sometimes arrives), peeked out the blinds, and remembered: Smoke.

Wildfire smoke. From Canada. The same smoke my daughter and son-in-law were breathing in Wisconsin. Last night, I checked the weather and saw the air quality alert. This morning, the Air Quality Index was 156 — Unhealthy. PM2.5 particles filled the air. We breathe these microscopic pollutants from wildfires into our lungs and they pass into our bloodstream — and yes, they can mess with our attention, our energy, and our mood.

So here I sit. On my porch. My throat scratchy, my eyes itchy, my brain still fogged. But I sit here anyway — because the air is cooler, and the bees and butterflies are still dancing in our garden, and the birds are still singing their wild morning songs. I steady my nervous system with their presence. I breathe it all in — even though I know the cost. Even though I know this same breath carries trauma from thousands of miles away.

And even though I know I am both witness to and participant in the systems that brought us here.

It’s August.
And I feel it deeply.
Every. Fucking. Day.