Hi,
I'm Kate Colby Nelson and I will be reading a short experiential story I wrote about connecting to the oneness of life on a warm summer day.
I invite you to make yourself comfortable,
Relaxed,
And now gently close your eyes,
Listening.
Sitting by an old cottonwood tree,
I am tucked in under its spotted shade.
I can feel the heat of the earth beneath me and the warm pulses of the air around me.
It's moving in waves,
Currents,
And puttering undulations.
I feel the heat move into my body with each breath.
I don't know where my breath begins and where summer's breath ends.
I am one with the million faces of summer.
Around me the grass has lost a little of its vigor of spring and is busy deepening its roots to quench its thirst.
The leaves on the trees,
Once pliable and soft,
Hang now,
Working with quiet resolve,
For this is their growing season,
And in spite of the heat,
They push into that.
They grow when the world wants to rest,
Each leaf answering the call of summer that whispers to them,
Grow,
My love,
This is the growing season.
Berries on the vine are ripening in the sun,
Their sweet juice pressing against their red shiny skins.
Like little jewels,
They glimmer in the green nest of thorns,
Inviting life itself to carefully taste the flavor of summer.
Sweet,
So sweet these little faces of summer.
And oh,
How summer sings.
Just listen to the hum of the cicada,
A thousand small voices singing a persistent symphony through the heat of the day.
And as if not to be outdone,
The honeybee sings its soft solo,
Buzzing from pistol to pistol,
Diligently collecting thick yellow puffs of pollen on its black fuzzy legs.
The honeysuckle joins in the only way it knows how,
Filling the air around me with its sweet,
Intoxicating scent.
My eyes catch a movement up on the ditch,
A scrawny coyote standing by the bank,
His head hanging low,
His thirsty eyes searching for the water that moved here yesterday,
But now is emptied by the farmers for their fields.
He stands so still,
His face,
His fur,
His thirst,
A solitary face of summer.
And up the road,
The black pavement dances in the heat waves,
Moving in wild patterns that look like wet,
Cool pools of water.
I wonder to myself if this coyote can see this mirage,
And if he ever in his thirst would look towards it only to find this too,
Empty and dry,
The dry face of summer.
There is no breeze now under this cottonwood tree,
Only the sounds of life around me,
An occasional hawk soaring above,
The hum,
The buzz,
And the slow sound of my breath.
It's so hot.
I close my eyes for a moment and rest my head against the roughed,
Textured trunk of the tree,
And feeling the dampness at the back of my neck as one beat of sweat and then another makes its course down my spine.
I am remembering the hours I spent as a child with my brothers and sisters swimming in our backyard pool,
The freckles we made,
The smell of chlorine in our hair and our skin,
The white hot pool decking we love to lay down on,
Delighted to hear a satisfying sizzle,
Underwater tea parties,
And endless cannonballs,
Grilling hot dogs and marshmallows on sticks over an open fire,
And waiting until we saw the first falling star of the evening to make our way in for the night.
Each one of us,
Sun-kissed,
Freckles and all,
An innocent face of summer.
When I open my eyes,
I see two blue dragonflies darting playfully back and forth,
The sun shining on their iridescent wings,
Their magnificent wings.
They move amongst the reeds and flowers with grace and power,
Their huge eyes seeing every detail of this too hot summer day in inconceivable multiplicity.
Now the sun is at its highest point,
In the stark blue cloudless sky.
It's a scorcher.
At first glance,
A passerby might think that I am alone under this old cottonwood tree,
When I sit unaccompanied,
That it is quiet and still and that I am a fool perhaps to be out in the high heat of this summer day.
But I am not alone.
What looks like a still life painting to some is very much alive.
It's teeming with purpose,
With love,
With fragrance,
Growth and song.
I am only one face in this enormous crowd under this cottonwood tree.
But here at its old twisted feet,
I am one with the million faces of summer.
C brother.
