This is summer her glory. When I love the wind because it is only a strong breeze and when the low sunlight reveals the patterns in the green of the leaves and catches in the loose bark of the birch trees and the almost red of the tomatoes and everything glimmers together - when my yard is my sanctuary.
Summer reveals paths into the unknown. But it is when I come home that I feel its rhythm, its subtle changes, and the September wind that sneaks in to rustle July leaves. Summer is not my favorite season, but it is the one I most desire to hold in my grasp. It is the season when everything is fully alive, breathing in as much life as is possible. And I wish to breathe in as much plump warm air as I am able; if I could only hold it in my lungs for exhale on that not distant enough day, a few months from now when this world will lay under a thick blanket of white.
But I know, as I must accept in every season of summer, that that is not the way of nature’s wisdom; her wisdom that reveals itself in subtle encounters that prompt our attention and feed our senses, and always she ushers us through the gateway that leads to the next season of glory.
And so we begin again, picking up the rhythm in the place we find ourselves, in the place we allow ourselves to be found. Maybe it is on a just warm enough summer evening aglow with light and play and promise or a on dim morning stinging with an unforgiving chill, if you wait for the rhythm to find you it always will.