Let’s be honest: I’ve been neglecting the blog. Not for lack of things happening—though I suppose not much has felt all that blog-worthy. It’s just that this stretch of summer feels like one long, slow exhale. A bit wilted. A bit tired. Kind of like my garden.
Yes, most of the plants have survived, thanks to some intense CPR, whispered apologies, and daily watering like it’s a full-time job. Still, even the survivors are sluggish—growth and production seem seriously behind schedule, like everyone’s dragging their roots through the heatwave. I feel that, deeply.
Last week, I left the garden to its own devices and headed to Champaign for the AP Lang and Comp Summer Institute at the University of Illinois. The experience? Well… it happened. Not quite the magic of last year’s AP Lit week, but that’s the luck of the draw when it comes to instructors. Still, I earned my certificate, scored a stack of free books, and now have a mountain of prep work to do. Honestly, I’d love another round at teaching AP Lit now that I’ve learned so much from last year’s class—but for now, I’m leaning in to this year’s challenge.
No hiking, no lake swims, no adventures—unless you count Kenobi and me living our best lives in a studio apartment that was… frankly, better than my own. The hotel mostly houses U of I students during the school year, so we were essentially staying in an upscale dorm with perks: dishwasher, garbage disposal, in-unit washer and dryer… and central air. Be still, my rent-weary heart. I need to move.
Back home, the heat has been relentless. Kenobi and I walk early—sun barely up, neighborhood just waking—and then we’re mostly inside, hiding from the oppressive sun. I’ve considered driving out to a local park with a lake, just to toss a toy for him until he’s too tired to protest coming home. But with all the fishing and boat activity, I’m unsure there’s a safe spot for a water-fetching pit bull with no off switch. Still, it might be worth a look. He could use the joy.
I could use the joy.
Honestly, I’ve been thinking about how to rediscover something I’ve always loved: dancing. Any kind. Any style. Anything that’s not a bar with blinking slot machines tucked in a corner. Unfortunately, it’s slim pickings here. Even Springfield doesn’t offer much, and the 30-minute drive with high gas prices and late returns is a lot to ask for a few spins around the floor. Still, the music venues and museums here are calling. Maybe it’s time to explore what’s actually around me—not for entertainment, but for a shift in perspective.
It’s easy to feel stuck this time of year. But maybe that’s okay for a while. Maybe this is just a quiet chapter before the next page turn.
And I’ll take any excuse to head back to the library or see what art lives within an hour of my front door.
On the Trails with Kenobi 
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