Between the Lines

In July, our days are naturally tethered to the outdoors—governed by light and warmth, drawn to water, movement, and the quiet rhythm of summer rituals. We expect the season to open up, not close in.

So what do we do when, early in the morning, the sky is already low and grey—and the forecast promises a full week of clouds and rain?

It’s a difficult question to face before coffee. As the hours pass, maybe we manage to invent a purpose: to tackle those long-postponed projects, the “for later” things that have lingered at the edge of our attention. Yes, that helps. It passes the time. But let’s be honest—it’s not a choice; it’s a substitution. A way to endure, not to rejoice.

How strange it is, how stubbornly we attach contentment to expectations. July should be sunny. If it isn’t, we feel displaced, as if something essential has been withheld. It’s a minor grief, but real nonetheless.

And perhaps, in a larger sense, this disquiet feeds into the collective mood. When the weather turns unseasonal and heavy, it adds to the ambient weight we’re already carrying—economic uncertainty, social fatigue, political tension. A string of gloomy days can subtly shift the emotional barometer of a whole society.

So may a ray of sunlight break through the clouds this morning—not just to warm the pavement, but to lift the spirits of a world that feels, at times, like it’s holding its breath.