Thus it's the first day after the summer solstice and sunset tonight is comparatively silent—but the young birds love this midsummer twilight!
So this time of year, I go to the picture window as if it were the sea and look for fireflies. They descend from the ground and slowly fall into the black hole of space. Call me self-awareness.
The last flowering pagoda dogwood wedding day of June feels like death. It’s completely conceptual but I need more fireworks!
Consider the lilies of early July—day lilies, trumpet lilies, a prophecy of lovely lilies! Get over the spring. Get over all aspects of identity and be nakedly unknown.
There's a sandbar in the river where a glacial moraine is being destroyed by the current. By early July, a crowd of boats is playing there.
Every year the lambs reappear in the neighbor’s field next door despite all death and rebirth. In the morning, there's a little one that likes to lie behind a bleached-out log and watch the people passing by.
Because there was a stop sign, I stopped for the chicken crossing the road. But the rooster wanted something like an invitation—cross already! Slowly it turns and suddenly I take a right.
Goldenrod is blooming in the sunny spaces of the south-facing riverbank. Soon the purple loosestrife shall be invasive in the wetlands. All of this because divinity of memory. Divine imagination.
Yes, every year about this time beginning late July, I start to think about the purple loosestrife—and like a miracle it appears within a week or two. Listen, in an ode to purple loosestrife, the world is divided because I am divided.
Accordingly I saw three separate instances of a lone purple loosestrife today, each at least a mile from another. Purple blossoms first appear like the gentle flame on a single tall green candle. In a week or two, these wetlands will be a godly inferno of purple loosestrife, an invasive plant apparently, but nevertheless one of truth and beauty.
The windows are open. It's late July and if memory serves me right, crickets are just around the corner. But tonight, there's not a single sound. It's like a ryokan here and I'm writing in an ancient hut, all calligraphy and enlightening intent.
This week I had to stop the car to let three wild turkeys cross the road. After every step, there’s a sudden stop. Necks appear to whiplash! The fourth one kindly stopped for me and I continued down the road.
Lately I see rabbits and not the wonderland kind. There's something about a rabbit in the grass. As if consciousness is there in both vast ears and listening. Hearkening only, full of intent and prime for spontaneity. Hearkening only.
Disassociation is an ego thing. Leaves don't fall until the fall and neither does self-awareness. As consciousness is the expression of the absolute, I am the divine imagination of consciousness—lucid, improvisational, inspirational.
The gardens are full of stunning Black-eyed Susans today. Like so many yellow suns emanating in the nameless—
O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, my vows shall ever true remain; let me kiss off that falling tear; we only part to meet again.
Seventh of August and the sun is setting before eight. Darkness doesn't fool me anymore. From the rim, I've seen the sunrise go on and on from butte to butte in Grand Canyon. I know that golden point of view.
Love is not some beautiful projection. Love is that projecting. Follow the light not of this world. For Jesus is Adam and Eve is Atman is Brahman is nameless noumenon. Last night I finally heard the crickets.
