"Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what
Of silk-sack clouds! Has wilder, willful-waiver
Meal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?"
Gerard Manly Hopkins, Hurrahing in Harvest 1918
and here is Hopkins with his marvelous poetic language and rhythm
and above, the 'silk-sack' clouds that September
has brought with her to the Similkameen.
Today yesterday's clouds have all been blown away
and that special magic of blue skies and cooler air lures us outdoors,
me and Callie, the cat.
In the early morning the dew glistened
in the light from the rising sun, but now the fading pots of flowers
are tired and thirsty, and they make me wonder if a trip
to Don and Anna's nursery for a few plants to perk them up
and see them through Indian Summer would not be a
lovely way to spend the afternoon!
What wonderful energy September brings with it!
When we have tired of the heat and lethargy of August
September bursts upon us and suddenly even its first day
is full of anticipation.
Yesterday I made beautiful golden apricot jam first thing in the morning,
and then finished spinning all the rolags I had prepared,
made more, spun them, reeled them off the wheel on to the swift,
tied the skeins, washed them and hung them to dry,
and this morning I wound them into a lovely ball, full of plans for
comfy green socks, or an emerald scarf????
I have gathered together all my Wallace Stegner books to re-read,
starting with 'The Angle of Repose'. Such a fine writer and one who
has been an inspiration, I think, to others, such as Ivan Doig, and
probably even Wendell Berry.
Looking at my blank September calendar pages I begin to fill in dates
for a Royal Purple Centennial Tea, regular Wednesday morning singing
and Tuesday afternoon knitting afternoons; dates for prawn suppers at the Branding Iron
and lunches with friends, monthly meetings - oh, it really
is a sweet and fulfilling month and one that lifts my spirits right into October
and then through the somberness of sad November.
I do not know if the seasons remember their history or if the days and
nights by which we count time remember their own passing.
I do not know if the oak tree remembers its planting or if the pine
remembers its slow climb toward sun and stars.
I do not know if the squirrel remembers last fall's gathering or if the
bluejay remembers the meaning of snow.
I do not know if the air remembers September or if the night remembers
I do not know if the earth remembers the flowers from last spring or if
the evergreen remembers that it shall stay so.
Perhaps that is the reason for our births - to be the memory for creation.
Perhaps salvation is something very different than anyone ever expected.
Perhaps this will be the only question we will have to answer:
"What can you tell me about September?"
"September Meditation" Burton D. Carley