II - Summer

"Summer lovin' having a blast...."

Apples, stone fruit, roses in full bloom and the heat haze over lavender fields. Last summer, I took myself off to a farm north of Melbourne and did nothing but sit in the sun and think. Summer's a time for dreamin', spinning fancies, strumming the guitar, eating out of doors and oh, summer is a time like no other, for love.

I wanted to start a post this week like this:

"Dear World,

I love you today.I'm well again and in love with life, with reading, with my books and my friends and my work... and with my new earphones! Listening to Norah, Krall, Jarrett and Evans on the train is finally possible. Thank you for the hymns that rise, circling through the consciousness to wing my heart up up and up. "


I miss writing letters - pressing pen to paper, making loops and swirls and embellishing all my 'g's and 'y's and any letter with joyous little serifs. So friends, if you get a curly little epistle or card from me, don't be surprised; life is good, God is good and so hugs and kisses - epistolary or otherwise - to all are due.

Mary Oliver poem on the mysteries of nature,the turning of the seasons. Who can hear the grass grow, or the clouds gather, thickly bringing rain, snow, hail or scatter to unveil skies azure, indigo, cerulean pure? Only the infinite He, in whom we live and move and have our being - who makes the sap rise and has set all things in their place.


Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun’s brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can’t hear

anything, I can’t see anything –
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker –
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing –
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet –
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn’s beautiful body
is sure to be there.

- Mary Oliver

The classic summer song :) Oh Travolta's hair! and those tight tight unbreathable jeans! Circulation is important, people!