We are at the end of summer now, poised right at the edge of autumn.
The trees here are still green for the most part, but I know it won’t be long before the September sun will lose its warmth and all this sensuous clothing of greenery will be changing into autumn gold before being whipped off in the wind, or shed quietly, a few leaves at a time, everything gradually being stripped bare for the nakedness of winter. Until then, for a short while, everything hangs in the balance. I can feel the change coming, and I take ever more deep breaths of this season’s resonance and its glow. And I watch, and wait.
But of course there is change already; as each moment slips by nothing is quite the same, and it’s tempting to want to hang on to the warmth, the colour and the light for a while longer. As I stand under the beech trees now with the afternoon sun low in the sky and still warm on my back, I can hear a robin singing. I don’t want this season to end, but at the same time I know that trying to grasp and cling on to it will give me nothing but pain. What I really want is the freedom that comes from passing willingly from one moment to the next, from one season to another, being present in whatever comes.
I look forward now to what comes. Not because it will be better, or different, but because I recognise now that what matters is just to be there and to be present, in each moment. And in the next moment, and the next, and the next.