This is not the mighty hunter that brought the rabbit low, but it's Minkins, who enjoyed the feast as much as if he was the mighty hunter.
It's amazing what's amusing at this time of the morning. Or not...
My morning fills with the sights and scents of the day, the zinnia, gladiola, daisy, and hydrangea that grow outside my door, along with the scent of the ginger candle on the round table. It is a warm night here, and very still. As always, we wait for the dawn, and appreciate the dark quiet.
Georgia is here on the bed with me, along with the sleeping dog, Max. I like watching her groom at this hour of the morning.
Group went well yesterday. We are working on the Distress Tolerance module in DBT (dialectical behavioral therapy.) We review acceptance, willingness, and 'turning the mind.' Or pulling ourselves out of a course of action that does not seem effective.
I seem to be out of the mania. Which is all to the good, since I don't feel it made me any more creative, or happier than I am right now. I simply enjoy watching this lovely cat, that I saved from a sure fate, groom as if her life depended on it. All that I require of her is to be. Her personality is a reward in itself. Here is her picture.
I don't want a drink and cutting is the furthest thought from my mind. I did some mild binge eating last night, but really, one can't have everything. I need to go to an AA meeting, but there is a poetry reading tonight I am committed to. I will somehow have to fit a meeting in earlier today.
The woods are sharp and clear, this morning, and scented with ginger. Small, night time noises rustle underneath and I hear crickets in the field behind me. The moss grows in such profusion, and the ferns are glad of the torrential rains we have had. The marks of where the stream left it's banks are against the nearby trees. But today, we have been several days without rain, and the stream runs forcefully, but contained by the blue and brown and green rock on the bank.
Summer has been late in coming, which is alright with me. I like summer nights, with the fireflies beaming all across the manicured lawn. The sight reminds me of being a child, and the endless wonder of watching them. For those of you in the world who do not have fireflies, they are a staple here in America, in the summer. But I do not like the heat of summer, nor the humidity.
I long for the mysterious changes that happen in Fall. And the cooler Fall nights, with it's memories of running through wet grass, and the onset of school. There is a particular lemony color in fall that I love, that streams in through the coffee shop windows. The light of Fall talks to me, in a way that no other season does. It is filled with nostalgia. It speaks of some kind of eternity, of Edgar Allen Poe, and Washington Irving. Something about Fall is ancient, and that is as it should be.
Perhaps it is that Fall is harvest time. It tastes like apples, and they grow well here, in the mountains. People here, plant apple trees in their front yards, they grow so well. And it is nothing to see them hanging red and heavy in the church yards. It is odd to me that my father did not plant an apple tree at the Old House. He preferred pear and sour cherry.
Pumpkins grow well here, too, and the fields are full of them, later in the year. It seems to me that if I just keep writing, it will appear. But this month goes quickly, and we will hit true fall in the next month or two. August is hot for us, and the sun blazes down in white heat, but at the end of the month, I can begin to smell the change in the wind. The night time scents are different as well.
But I only have today. It is supposed to be hot, and water is everywhere. The darkest of greys appears behind the trees, and it is quiet. Georgia sleeps.
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