Too many. As if my metaphysical period is over and am in the wallow of decadent style; Donne to Dryden in a week or two.
Started writing about why I disliked August, and maybe have become infected by its shapeless confusion. A month of moulds and yeasts.
But I have no excuse now.
Its late September, and we are steaming full-speed into the dark and windy sea of tomorrow.
Bustles of picking vegetables and cutting firewood help define time.
People are juicing apples and stringing onions wherever I look.
I have been back more to the forest, and restored my workspace there, with a new clear tarpaulin rigged like a berber tent over the sawbench and a fresh battery on its tractor. The garden is getting less attention. I spent the equinox there, so feel the autumn tidying has at least started. Some turned soil.
The bracken is backing off boiling all over my saplings. I have rescued some drowning, chafed and shrouded trees, but have come to love it despite this. It nurtures with its compost, as long as I too tend to the task.
I'm trying to be wisely spontaneous about where to be and when, partly by listening to the gentle call of a task before it becomes a scream, or thinking about it makes my heart sag with guilt. Its not just work places that nag for a visit. There are about half a dozen sites that occur in my mind with firm regularity. They need attention, and I always come away feeling replenished, so its mutual.
Its shamanism. You have it too. There is a mix of letting go of intellectual commentary and predeliction, and embracing intuition and imagination, that is magic. Our lives are not ready-meals. The only reliable recipe is you.
And then there is myself. My body is feeling stiff and sore, so I have to listen to it when it gets stretched and painful, and try to give it a loving rest.
As long as I am doing the right thing, at the right time, there IS energy and time for everything.
But that's so rare, its more theory than practice.
I feel ready now. For whatever comes next. The mess of Summer is being flattened or stripped by this wind.
It's real again.
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