These are the days of waiting... and creatively so, as it is too hot to think and otherwise to move. So I knit and read and plot, and my son makes little roads of play-doh.
This time, now? Well, I hadn't quite expected this. Things have turned considerably topsy-turvy here on the farm, and where once I was harvesting fat, juicy red tomatoes, the it's the very weather that is fat, juicy and red. Not that I'm not still plucking those crimson wonders from the vine. But all around me, summer has exploded into this uber-personality, indeed a being all its own: air heavy with the rich sound of too many crickets and cicadas singing to a sunrise that is too bright and so very, very hot. Air heavy with humid liquidity, the clouds bellowing a threat that never comes due-- that indeed you wish would come, for the cooling rain would lighten things up. And the leaves, which yellow more each day, still stretch to the point that it seems the forest itself has reached full capacity; any more growth, and surely it will burst...
Which is to say, at long last I think I understand the Season of Lugh: the incredible brightness, richness, over-powering-ness that ascends to its apex and then exits in a grand swan-song of being.
It's a fine metaphor for where I find myself these days. Life has become overwhelming in this summer's end: the business venture we moved 3,000 miles to nurture for a family member has gone bust. Branches have tangled and the heat has risen and yes, it seems impossible to bear any more of this unexpected, unbearable summer.
But on we do, "not doing": wrapping up responsibilities, looking for new work, learning to rest in a very uncomfortable bardo. What will come? We are excited to know! For the pumpkins have harvested early, and each day the breeze carries more and more leaves upon it. To where will we follow? ...we are excited to know!
in the morning
11 hours ago