September 4 2013
There is a kind of compulsion this time of year, to burst.
It seems we grow and grow and grow and ripen and ripen and open ourselves to love and life - to excess.
On hot summer days -
So hot the tomatoes burst if we touch them, which is why we don't pick tomatoes in the heat of the day.
So hot the volatile oils in basil leaves perfume - the oils practically boil out of the cells and explode into the noonday air.
So hot passions overtake us, our reasoning faculties elude us, and we make rash, stupid decisions that a cooler head might prevent. A time for red lipstick and extra high-heeled sandals and painted toe nails.
This excess of heat and passion and volatility at some point has to combust into fire, into fruition, until it finally has to -- exhale.
Yang turns back toward yin.
But before it does, in the afternoon, sometime past noon and before dusk, we have the harvest.
We have the exploding flavor of ripe juicy tomatoes and corn bursting with milk and cucumbers and melons and figs and grain and grapes turning into raisins. So much flavor, so much love, so much pure bliss, so much light-headedness,
all held in suspension at this moment in late summer. Indian Summer. The time when time stops for a long pause, before yang exhausts itself.
The Earth phase of late summer comes into glory, a gracious plenty, the groaning board of contentment laughing at its own crazy exuberant abundance.