Saturday, 1 November 2014

October State of Mind

Last October while walking in Central Park we made three wishes. In time all three came true. How were we to know that that particular twilight was infused with pixie dust? For if we had known we’d not have been so casual with our wishes. And of course, been mindful of the caveat: be careful what you wish for.

Some years ago, we received a benediction; you are lucky to be able to do what you want and to do it at your own terms. The benediction was heartfelt, but how it weighs on our heads. Can you imagine what the benediction entails?

We say, ‘come to think of it all regrets, if there are any, are about not compromising on our principles’. But it is only the foolish that regret, and only the foolish that collect causes for regrets. So it goes.

October is always a state of mind.

October when the harvest comes home. No matter where you live, you reap what you sow. Back home the beginning of celebrations, most prominently marked by the start of the great Indian wedding season. Out here in the global West with the sun low in the sky, the leaves turning color, seeds parachuting in the wind, the harvest ushers in another state of mind, and one that closely resonates with mine:

“Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.”

October, gorgeous October. 

Today it gently rains and outside my window there are yellowed leaves in the wind: hundreds of twirling dervishes, mesmerizing, hypnotic. Now the wind pauses and a lone yellow leaf launches from the rooftop garden far above. Unlike the wind orchestrated frantic twirling from a few moments before, it makes its way down slowly one floor at a time. It took an eternity, but there it is now one with the yellow pile by the curbside.

 It is only the foolish that regret, and only the foolish that collect causes for regrets.

(For another look at autumn in five pictures and poems begin here:

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