Autumn is slowly painting the Bay over with its pigments. Tempted as I may be to describe those "pigments" in excessively romantic prose, they really are the usual, if only annual, suspects - orange, brown, yellow and the occasional purple. The air isn't cold enough to scare me away from sipping tea in the backyard just yet. I am neither at peace, nor anxious. Everything around me is so perfectly calm and balanced, so completely unassuming in its beauty that I can't find any justification for not feeling the same, and yet I am here, observing and recording. It is nature that has grown within its man-made bounds of brick walls, stone paths and perimeter fencing, but I don't find any signs of oppression or resistance. It grows around and over, through and under these obstacles without fatigue. How does one fight the non-resisting? How does one force change on the pliable? How does one subjugate the willing? These words of attack lose their meaning when you try to spring them into action upon nature. It does not allow, for in allowance there is an implied choice. It makes no choices, for it is not a participant in our plans. It does not plan, for in a plan there is a goal, and a goal is a concept known only to the human mind.
I don't want this privilege of third party observation. In moments like these it is only a burden that results in this mild anxiety.
But what a beautiful word, autumn.
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People should read this.
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