Summer has unofficially arrived with its lazy heat, and with that, changes to our thermostats and routines. Dads begin their yearly campaign of HVAC vigilance, eyeing exterior doors with fiduciary suspicion. We exercise outdoors in the cool of morning to escape sweltry afternoons. Kids attend camps to preserve moms’ sanity. Traffic is calmer, but interstates rev up into sun-baked infernos. Days are now wonderfully or unnaturally long, depending on your affinity for these alterations.
Our world is engulfed in its own season, though it’s largely devoid of the barefoot pleasures summer brings. The same dull haze that settles over skyscrapers in July has gripped the psyche of the entire globe, but in a season measured in human epochs, not months. We hope flying here and there may lift us out of the news cycle or shield us from its ghoulish characters, even if for just one weekend.
When I was in high school, my dad joined a couple of retired admirals to create a small staffing company. At the time, I thought its name—CAVU—was odd; but it was an aviation term meaning “ceiling and visibility unlimited,” perfect flying conditions for the retired fighter pilot who sparked their enterprise. (My husband flew, too, so I pulled out this impressive bit of aviation knowledge when we were dating.)
When I fly, I’m always hoping for a CAVU experience. I book a window seat so I can bring some crisp, blue awe into an otherwise ragged travel day. I want to peer through 30,000 feet of clear air to see snaking water or wrinkled mountains. It’s disappointing when a sea of cotton thwarts this fun, but it forces my admiration in a different direction—upwards. A layer of poetic and otherworldly grays lend the curtain of clouds a bit of majesty and mystery. On descent, I’ll bump down through them in white-knuckled tension, but from the sunny side above them, their turbulence is comfortably distant.
Sometimes I land to find those cloudy skies snuffing out my travel excitement. The palm trees look stormy, or peaks disappear in mist. Roads are wet, and people are both wet and glum. Yet, just minutes before, sunlight had thrown a golden glow on the same sea of gray now shading my mood. Life looked different above the cloud.
Similarly, we find our spirits swamped lately; an unrelenting haze of absurd culture envelops the world with his heaviness—except, sadly, this is no seasonal phenomenon. Its ancient vapors have outlived weather fronts and cultural fads. In fact, what we thought were just old fads were the initial stirrings of the front, tiny clouds that hung at a distance. Now we sit daily under their frowning shadows, with no forecast of clearing in sight.
An exceptional light still smolders, though, and it always will. Our world is still alive with the stubborn magic that the wet blanket can’t fully cover. We can still smile at everyday beauties like fiery sunrises, grassy parks, lake swims and heat lightning; the California coast still outshines perversions encamped just miles away. Men and women still marry and make babies; people still make music, too. The good stuff sparkles with a glimmer of heaven, while the bad stuff hovers jealously.
Yet, when far enough away from such enchanted places, we feel the damp spirits. They’re haunting our stores, offices, schools and even churches. Go run a few errands, get out a bit; unless you live in a bubble, you’re likely to encounter those who, subtly or not, reek of the swampy evil. You sense the darkness in their words, their looks, and their ideas; and why don’t they? It’s very simple. They breathe the smog of disbelief, thus poisoning their persons and endeavors with its deadly fumes.
