I’ve been calling it “midsummer madness” because the old folklore says that’s what it is. I keep thinking about St. John’s Eve, fae doors, witch hours, summer spirits getting restless, that whole messy idea that the veil thins when the sun is at its peak. I’m not religious, and I won’t pretend I’m some high priestess of the season, but I do think there’s something real about the way a season can rearrange your interior weather.

For me it hits like a creative pressure valve. I’ll be under the hood of my truck at 9 p.m., grease under my nails, and suddenly I’m staring at a spark plug like it’s a tarot card. The Tower shows up in my head with its sudden upheaval, a structure cracking open, lightning hitting the tower while the figure falls. I’m not saying my engine is mystical, but I feel the symbolism. The machine is a body, the oil is blood, the summer heat is agitation, and I’m the mechanic who keeps pretending I’m in control.

What gets me is how honest June makes me feel. I think Jung had a point about archetypes not being “just” myths. They’re patterns that keep showing up in dreams, art, and culture because they name something we can’t quite say out loud. By the time the heat peaks, I’m tired of being the person who knows how to fix things but not how to explain why the fix makes me cry.