Indian Summer. Summer doesn’t last very long. I savor each moment. Indian summer comes in quiet and sits for awhile. The rosy days bring clear skies that look autumnal and the tips of the highest trees turn ever golden as the sun. Trees beginning to dress for a seasonal affair. Birds and squirrels still busy on feeders and in play. Infant deer staying close to their mother, their spots soft and their faces pure. The sunflowers rise up and shine their faces to the sun. My favorite activity. I join them.
I found myself angry. It rose and swirled and old tiffs came forth until I found myself stomping through the woods. Those things like deaths of friends. Then the ill will of others. A stolen bank card. Community gardens becoming nightmares. Fear begets anger. Fear of things lost. I tried to find the husky’s owner before she would get hit but as I ran to the street she lay there, a pool of blood about her head. I lifted her from the pavement and set her on the grass before anyone else could hit her soft, young frame. And I sobbed as if she were mine, but not. I could not stop time. Lost dogs in a horrid marriage and unloved moments by family pull forward in memory and time begins to go backwards and then forward again in worries of future and things I cannot control.
A very wise mentor and friend of mine said to only focus on the ten percent. The ten percent of things in mind that one can actually change. Alas, all my fears and anger, and sadnesses and defeat unchangeable. I turned the corner on the trail and let the anger seep into Mother Earth. She will capture it and turn it into a flower or a tree or something beautiful and cleansing. I sit atop a rock and look out at the cliffs and rushing river below and see things as they are. Small. The more I walk the more the anger shifts away, dissipates, only leaves peace. Love. Send out love. Each person on their on their own journeys. Just send out love.
I must walk as much as I can through the green dresses of trees and bushes and touch the cold water with my toes. There are water features to play in and sunflowers to hug. Smiles to be shed and shared. Little ones to hug and great books to read in the sun. There is no time to waste. The lazy, hazy, beautiful days of Indian summer are here.
The bronze statue, named “Soaking in the Sun”, is by Roxanne Swentzell, one of my favorite artists, this being my favorite piece. I bought the card of the statue so that I could keep it near. I feel the joy in the face of this piece of art. Inside the card reads, “Like the person and pumpkins soaking in the sun, there are wonderful things in life that feel glorious and are good for us to soak up. Our simple desires, like sitting in the warm sun, are sometimes our deepest reminders that we are truly fruit of this planet.”