I realize I need to rework my dreams, change my goals to mini goals. And so I do

Educators love June more than August.

Prove me wrong.

That’s ridiculous, you say. The end of June brings end-of-the-year reports, out-of-control students itching to go to camp, the energy of spring-turned-summer fever, as the Morah’s energy wanes.

Yet….

I love June. Hey, give me some May if you will. The empty canvas of possibilities. Where will the summer bring me? Daily poolside journaling opportunities, recipe developing for that artichoke salad I’ve been playing around with in my head… oh wait! What if I pencil in brunch with friends or a boost in my chesed hours?

Alas. Pipe dreams. And now you know why I love June so much. Hope might spring eternal in the spring, but it hits with a mighty thud come August. (Or Rosh Chodesh Elul, whichever comes first.) The panic begins to set in around mid-July, when I realize how my summer recalibration hasn’t really begun.

Recuperating from packing up your kids for camp much? Attending to bills and files you promised you’d look at once the last bell of the last period rings? How did that work out for you?

I’m ashamed to admit my lack of progress in any area of my to-do list isn’t because I was busy doing chesed, or due to any pressing projects that revealed themselves to me.

I remember running into a friend one day in June. My son mouthed along with me, “Yes, we must do coffee very soon.” His snarky face told me what I already knew. The chances of it happening were very unlikely.

Sure, I treated myself to an iced coffee here, and ran into acquaintances at the store there. But did I obliterate chunks of to-dos? Not so much. My vision of the sands of time slipping away is only exacerbated by the fact that I live a block away from the beach — and my plan to take a five a.m. sunrise run was left as just that, a plan.

Sigh.

For the past few years, summer found me traveling to simchahs in Israel, leaving me less time to hit my to-do list. At least that’s how I justified it. This year, no dice. The onus of unproductivity lies solely on yours truly.

I realize I need to rework my dreams, change my goals to mini goals. And so I do.

The things I prioritize eventually get done. I do get my run and exercise classes in. I make dinner. I write shopping lists and purchase everything on it, and attempt to prevent cognitive decline by playing Wordle.

But here I am, bereft of the feeling of accomplishment.

That is, if accomplishing goals equals accomplishment.

Sure, there is the dread of not getting through my list. But there isn’t the dread of meeting a deadline. When I daven, I’m not rushed, and kavanah is within my reach. When I see a messy room, I take the time to put away some things before I set off to make dinner. Here’s the thing: What I’ve gotten done over the summer is something I’m not capable of doing all year.

I.

Slow.

Down.

If July sucks away the time faster than a vacuum on steroids, August has me trained to pause. The frenetic pace of the autumn, winter, and spring is replaced with calm and levelheadedness. I remember that I’m not a human doing, I’m a human being. To me, to PAUSE means to Postpone Action Until Sanity Enters. And there will only be space for it to enter if I let the tension of goal-meeting seep out of me.

And if I happen to get a few iced-coffee runs in while I’m at it, at least I’ll have a friend with whom to share my newfound wisdom.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 907)