Abundance

With spring beginnings come promise, hope, renewal and a thousand other cliches about what might be right around the bend.  We shake off the crust of winter snow and toss the boots in the attic and march forward into the sun wanting more.

Ever and always wanting more.

But now, in late summer, the basil plants are hanging weak and thirsty, and the tomatoes drag their vines so low you want to yell, "get up you lazy things!" The early September light is white and glaring and almost garish, and the squirrels are as fat as piglets.   The pepper plants are bursting, and you sigh deeply because what am I going to do with all those peppers?  The jam is made and the canning done.  The school supplies are purchased. The new clothes are laid out carefully for the first day of classes.  

Before you know it the harvest will be over and the fresh fruit gone.  The pumpkins will turn orange, and the new clothes will be stained.  All the tomatoes will be mealy and imported and utterly disappointing. Everyone will have to buy their basil in depressing little plastic clam shells that hide the brown leaves in the center.

All of these things--the riches of late summer and the barrenness of the coming fall and winter-- make me feel heart-achy in way that makes me grateful and honest and raw and tearful and ready all at once. I'm ready to say good-bye to summer. 

I'm ready to say good-bye to so many things.

summer cairn