September

"Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the

Stooks arise

Around; up above, what wind-walks!  what

lovely behavior

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

the moon.

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