I love summer for a reason that almost no one says: its slowness.
In August, the world seems to slow down. The streets are emptier, conversations are longer, the siesta stops being a luxury and becomes a right. Even the heat forces us to stop, to look for shade, to do less.
For years I fought against that slowness. I felt that wasting time in summer was almost a sin, that I should use every day to produce something. And it exhausted me.
Now I have learned to let myself go. To accept that there are seasons for doing and seasons for being. And that summer is, above all, a season for being.
I read without hurry. I walk at the hour when the sun goes down. I sit on the porch and watch how the light changes. And I do not feel guilty.
There is a deep wisdom in summer slowness. It reminds us that we are not machines, that rest is not a prize to be earned, but a need as natural as breathing.
This summer I am taking it seriously. Like an important job: the job of resting.