By: EarlB, 1:48 AM GMT on August 31, 2007
It's August's last week. It is still summer, but, there is something
new in the air. The breeze being combed by the woods today was
different. There was a lightness to it. Not burdened with humidity,
it carried only the scent of fallen pine needles, spiced by a hint
of far-off newly mowed lawn.
The wind was like a farewell, a door closing. Or, was it a beginning,
a breeze blowing the door open? Isn't that the way it usually is, there
is an intimacy of opposites. An intimacy that implies continuity.
The opening and closing become one and ready you for the next new opening,
new closing. Goodbyes and hellos, the seed and flower, the mother and
daughter, the day and night, circles all.
This part of a year's circle is my favorite, not summer, not autumn,
but, the change. The part of the circle that breathes the life that
the circle is.
Updated: 2:07 AM GMT on August 31, 2007
By: EarlB, 12:24 AM GMT on August 17, 2007
I live in a world of my own making, I suspect. What IS for me
is what I choose it to be. I walk around with open eyes, eyes
open to a select set of survivable sorrows and acceptable joys.
We create little Edens for ourselves, our way of finding safety.
Some are real gardens, others are places to which we can escape in our
minds. Both are real enough and necessary. Very few of us live in as
safe a world as we can create within ourselves.
We turn to reading, to woodland trails, to walks on beaches, to
the cinema, to music, to meditation, to television programming,
to writing, to visiting with friends, to sleep. In each, we effect
our escape from a scaring world.
Whether it is a tug on a kite's string or a fishing line, the
soft touch of yarn or solid security of a climber's belay, we
live here, but keep a sure grasp on that which saves us.
"...see, you see what you want to see, you hear what you want
to hear." (from Harry Nilsson's "The Point": the Rock Man's wisdom)
Updated: 12:27 AM GMT on August 17, 2007
By: EarlB, 1:43 AM GMT on August 02, 2007
It's another cicada summer, all summers are. Summer starts the first day
that the non-stop zipper of "zeee" opens.
I remember when I was younger, when I was growing up and living in the
city, how the cicada's sound, the sound from an inch-long insect,
could drown out the sound of traffic, the sound most like the cicada's
during the rest of the year. But, in summer, the cicadas ruled, over all.
The grind of their sound drills to the center of the senses. The heat of
the day, reflected by the building walls and then radiated late into the
night burns to the bone. Together, heat and noise are my memory, my dreaded,
dislike of summer. Summer was an inescapable prison.
Now the memory of the cicada as antagonist is just a story from a time past,
they don't buzz inside me anymore, now they are just a part of a bigger total:
crickets, birds, katydids, some days even the 3-mile-away-surf-sounds dilute
the cicada's hold on my spirit.
I don't doubt that there is someone suffering under the cicada's day-in,
day-out forecast. I don't doubt that there is someone else who dreads their song,
the song of summer. There is hope for escape, hope for an end to a cicada summer.