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Hot summer days stretch time like molten glass—

every hour slow, every thought heavy.

We sip cold water, close curtains, and try to keep our minds from unraveling in the heat.

Yet the sun finds us. Not just on our skin, but in our moods.

We become more tender, more irritable, more human.

And yet, we adapt.

Just as we have always done, from the frozen poles to the searing deserts.

I often think of Yazd—

that ancient city sculpted by wind and wisdom.

Its bâdgirs rise into the sky like sentinels of forgotten knowledge,

catching the breeze and sending it down into the heart of homes built from mud and time.

Houses that listen, that breathe.

My dream is to one day wake up in one of those traditional houses again.

Not merely to visit, but to belong—

to be resurrected into a rhythm of life that makes sense.

A courtyard shaded by pomegranate trees, watered by hand,

where the scent of kaahgel—a sacred mix of wheat husk and clay—rises from the sun-warmed walls

whenever the earth drinks rain or the gardener’s hands spray the roots.

That scent… earthy, ancient, alive…

as if the house itself inhales and exhales.

But lately, I ask myself:

What is the point of waking up in your favorite house

if you don’t know what’s going on beyond its walls?

How can you rest when the political sphere spins so wildly,

when peace becomes a privilege you might no longer afford?

What use is shade,

when your mind is lit with the harsh sun of uncertainty?

When the scent of earth is overpowered by the smoke of distant decisions?

Still—

I long for that house.

Not as an escape, but as an anchor.

A place to return to my own breath.

Because even when the world beyond the walls is on fire,

we need somewhere sacred—

where something still makes sense.

Where the wind still listens.

Where the clay still holds memory.

Where the earth still breathes.