(4)

The cool spring weather has ended, abruptly; almost overnight the sultry heat of summer descended upon us.  It had to happen sometime of course, but I have been dreading it, knowing how unbearable my apartment can get when the hot weather goes on without break for too long a time.  There's nothing I can do about it except to hope that, as spring gives way to summer, there will still be some cool days left for me to enjoy . . .

I take a walk to the cemetery and settle under my favorite tree for a half-hour's rest and contemplation.  Gradually all the pressures and worries that have been weighing me down in recent days relax their grip.  Gradually I become aware of the hiss and sigh of the wind coursing through the trees up above me; gradually begin to take notice of the grasses and mosses growing round about me, deriving pleasure from their many variations of size and shape and color.  I take pleasure too in the pale white knobs of the clover blossoms poking out from among the grasses; also some minuscule, but rather pretty, bell-shaped purple flowers catch my eye.  Ants are soon busy crawling over my pant-legs and into my shirtsleeves; flies come to pay me a call and nose about hungrily over my bare hands and feet.  Looking farther afield I notice that, about twenty feet away, a pine tree is in its death throes:  the bark hangs loosely from its trunk; large chunks of it have peeled away and the wood underneath looks punky.  Scanning upward, I see that the limbs of the tree all point downward now; many, though not all, are devoid of needles.  Glancing elsewhere about me, I observe that the cemetery stones remain as stolid and implacable as ever, though many seem to be tilting at odd angles, evidence of the earth's slow heaving.  Bird songs fill the air, some musical, some not; some being made of single phrases repeated over and over; others being mere squawks.  Somewhere in the sky far, far above me I hear a long, smooth, droning sound – an airplane in flight.

Slowly I become aware of what I might call a sort of "sloshing about" of thoughts and emotions inside me.  I examine them curiously:  What purpose do they serve?  The question catches at me, snags me:  I let it go.  I refuse to build any more theoretical constructs concerning the existence of my inner environment.  It's the story of my life that I want now – only that.  And the story of my life is told simply through its telling – of what happens as I follow whatever internal and/or external promptings as cannot, or will not, be denied.  But the only internal prompting I will allow today, sitting under a tree in the cemetery, a cooling breeze blowing across my face, is the one that tells me to ignore any and all of the intellectual and emotional pressures I feel within.  For it is only in this way that the experiential beingness that I am can open, flower, expand . . .

Meanwhile the cool breeze soothes; the dappled sunlight teases; and I begin to grow sleepy . . .  Until, that is, I feel a sudden light thunk against my chest.  Glancing down, I spy a small, green insect sitting there.  "Curious looking little bugger," I think.  Its front end is shaped rather like a crab, but its back end is long and pointy and curves slightly upward.  Its thorax pulsates as it draws in, then releases the air; gently it rocks from side to side on six greenish, bent legs.  I bend my head down to take a closer look . . .

Then the little rascal jumps:  and when he jumps, he jumps straight into my face.