past, present, future

The rowan berries turning orange, the birch shedding its first yellow leaves, the darkening nights, they all speak of the end of the summer approaching. For several days the sun went pouting behind the clouds letting the torrent of rain reign the days. The toes accustomed to wiggling freely in flip flops and sandals were forced into socks. The swimsuits and beach towels sat sadly in the cupboard. It seems that after the most glorious summer the fall wants to arrive earlier than usual. Too early. Even when the sun finally returned the shift in weather was noticeable. "It feels like September on some days," people said.

Throughout my very last day in the countryside I kept repeating to myself, "Thanks to impermanence everything is possible. Let go of the attachment to the past. Don't rush to the future. Enjoy the moment." I thought so when I shivered before immersing myself in the cool and clear seawater, when I watched a butterfly sitting on a purple coneflower, when I ate a cucumber for a snack, when I picked a small mint for a cup of tea, when I watched mom watering tomatoes, when I listened to my little nephew telling about his latest adventures, when I followed my sister's directions to make a cottage cheese pie, when I sat and sweated in sauna, when I saw sheep gazing between junipers as we drove back home with my hubby. 

I know there's no point in protesting against the changing seasons, fighting with the weather or demanding the sea water to warm up again. Instead I plop a red-cheeked cherry tomato into my mouth, open my journal and write a gratitude list. My summer has been generous. It offered me so much more than the sleep and reading time that I had wished for. The summer nurtured my soul and body. 

Today, after I close my laptop, I'll walk in my home neighbourhood, savour sofa time with "Braiding Sweetgrass" by Robin Wall Kimmerer, and make dinner from a yellow zucchini I brought form the countryside. 

Tomorrow I will go to school.