So while I was prowling around way in the back of my garden, I found exactly four leaves on the Burning Bush that have turned red. My friend Christy has started her tomato canning/salsa liturgy. The annuals have now grown into magazine cover status and the birds are free to flit and sing throughout the garden, with no attendant worries of babies. You know what this means.
I have always loved Southern California because of my Grandma Belle ties; I loved that woman dearly even though I am a replica of the other grandma, that Timberlake Queen, Bula Grace. But it was in a distracted, spectator manner that I loved/love SoCal, despite those damn jacaranda trees, camellias and agapanthas, because I could never live in anyone or anywhere where the Four Seasons were unknown. I love the seasons and live deeply by them. But lately, I do think I could give an endless summer a try.
Is it because I love summer more? My days are now so different in summer; no racing to Seattle or Vancouver for the weekend with a Suburban full of soccer girls. No reload after reload for a hyper busy boy too curious and involved for his own good. No running back and forth to Coeur d'Alene on errands of mercy, exercises in frustration. No swim team practice, no art school classes, no pool parties, no firecracker shorts, no birthday cakes, no sunsets along a wide sky on the way home, no back to school sales.
None. Now that I devote myself to what holds my interest, the days do not seem long enough or satisfying enough to let go of and I love them/need them, the hours of exploration and contemplation, more than I ever have. A conundrum to be sure. Has life become something of an art form?
And my long ago Jewish heritage that I thought was a little later in my personal evolution that might make either of my grandmothers comfortable, seems much, much father away these days as I just do not like fall and the new year as I once did.
I'm changing again. As the tee shirt I bought in Seattle last weekend says,
It's all good.
The 'Kan EWA