Tales of spending the summer in a yurt, lit by candles, sleeping in a string hammock...or a summer in Maine working at a vineyard, pouring tastings, wrapping bottle, being chased around the garden by a groundhog, a finally one day, cornered, bitten and subjected to the inevitable series of rabies shots...a summer spent drawing and painting in Italy, and a tale of someone else's summer of unemployment, no job to be had....back to a schedule, back to Priest Studies, back to wearing shoes, though I've discovered only my Birks remain comfortable.
September opens its own indestructable flower, vibrant even in frost, tawny, not subtle, pliable.
September seems to be made for Samu, cleaning the cobwebs while allowing spiders to remain, in order to continue their work for a few more weeks.
Bedding is hung from the line. Curtains are taken from windows and laundered. The dog's bed is aired once more before the house is closed up.
September has a certain quietness, even in the rush to begin classes, as if perhaps breathing more deeply the final sun and heat and terribly blue, blue sky.
Is this not Shunyata?
Even a dog's bark deepens the sense of bittersweet awareness.
Namu Amida Butsu!
September, from the Tres riches heures du dac de Berry