Sunday 1 August 1999
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Pic of the day: Late bloom. It is hard to keep up my hypochondria in the face of such heart-rending beauty. I feel so in sync with August. This time of the year is so full of life: Everything that has been growing and growing and growing since spring. And then there is a slow but distinct alteration in the pattern of life. It starts to mature - to concentrate its efforts towards bearing fruit. And I feel so like it on this early August day: I feel like I've been soaking up the lifegiving rays of the sun since the frost left the spring of my life; taking it all into myself ... but have not yet come along to bear fruit. I still hold it all inside of me. Once upon a time, the concept of bearing fruit was one of slavery. "An ye beareth not good fruit, ye shall be thrown onto the fire" (quote heavily mangled for theatrical effect). But that was in the spring of my life, when my leaves were still seared by the last frost nights. Now, in August, bearing fruit is like a biological need. I need to share myself, what I am and what I own. (As my poor best friend can attest, whenever I use her as a child surrogate. Oh well, it could have been worse. It could have been a poodle.)
Just give me time ... it is still early August. Perhaps I can still
mature before the frost comes back, and the years of which I must say
that I have no pleasure in them. (Which is pretty far from what I feel
now, let me assure you.)
As I woke up today (Yay! *cheer*) I came to think that the end of yesterday's entry may not have made sense this time either. When I said that I thought of my past and wept, you may possibly imagine that I wept with self-pity. I used to do that in days now long gone. No, I wept with regret that I have not used my years better. That I have not loved - or when I loved, showed my love - while I was still alive. Well, it is not entirely true that I never did. I wasn't good at getting along with people, but I loved children (not in a very carnal sense, obviously) and often they loved me. It is an irony, isn't it, that as a child I felt better with grown-ups, but as a grown-up I got along better with children? And this is how I notice that time flies: The children I used to hang out with, are marrying and having children of their own. Guess I'm not young anymore. But neither am I old. It's August, and a beautiful time to be alive. I sure wish it could last.
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