The days are still warm, but the mornings come chilled, as though they are dipping towards frost, towards icy winter days. I wrap myself in wool and drink hot teas, and wait for the sun to warm the air.
Yesterday I climbed the mountain and stood for a moment, catching my breath, feeling the sun on my face, seeing it through the trees, playing with colors. I danced a little to myself, reaching for the light, because it was all so beautiful.
I sat a bit on the mossy path, seeing leaves fall around me like golden rain. I sat for a long time with my shoes off, naked feet on wet grass, and watched the quiet of nature, the silence that seem to be in the trees, in every blade of grass. I wanted that silence for myself, and felt it required a certain kind of trust, and a long time in the open air. Sometimes I meet people who spend a lot of time outdoors, and the outdoors seem to be in them also, like they become the forest, or the vast snowy fields. They seem a little more steady, a little more quiet in themselves, and I’m drawn to that.
When I go for a walk, I often feel restless in the beginning, but as time goes by nature starts to work on me, seeping into me, and I find myself noticing things I hadn’t before, like a veil slipping from my mind. It’s hard to leave then. I want to stay under the open sky, hear the voices of trees, smell the heather. I want to be the sky, the trees, the wind.
Walking home I heard the sound of water, trickling somewhere out of sight, gurgling beneath the rocks. I felt its crystal song inside of me, like a healing touch, like a silver light reaching for deeper hurts hidden away, in shadowy places.
The air turns softly fragrant towards the mid afternoon. I see pale yellow butterflies playing over the field, and I leave my windows open again, letting the wind brush in, ever so gently, on this quiet, wistful day. It feels like the last breath of summer, and I start to put my summer clothes away, leaving ones for autumn, for winter, for colder days.