September

So September, dearest of months, when the sweet rain returns and hope lifts its brindled nose! The sun slews round to shine straight down Burnside: driving away west from my house in the morning, I see a huge red orb in my rear view mirror (the fires aren't out yet), directly behind me. The promise and threat of the One, I suppose. How do I picture God? As that bloody orb: too bright to look at directly for long, but that by which everything else is seen. There, that's my theology, as far as it goes. I welcome the cloudy days and cooler weather, the veiling of the sun, as more suited to my weakness; but I don't entertain the delusion that I could do without it, or that my eyes make their own light. 

A scattering of airborne seeds, like baby dandelion fluffs, float over me when I'm coming home and walk back up the drive. And early in the evening Vega is still right overhead, still presiding. Yes. This remains my favorite month. I don't hate the summer any more, and I look forward to the cold and the rain less than I used to, but it's still, to me, the month of promise. It's the month I used to look over my new school books, and anticipate understanding new things and meeting new people (living and dead: new to me.) Mysterious names will fill with meaning; eyes will fill with light.

I go a little less in fear of saying what I've said before, I guess. I'll bang the drum I have, for the time given to me. Lots of love, you.