September Mind
September sunlight dances on drying leaves, sparkling like diamonds against a flowing stream, an azure sky. The plants of summer are dying. Flowers that have given such joy all summer long are now spurned by us as they shrivel into the paradoxical beauty of old age. The sun burns lightly on summer-drenched skin as clouds intrude intermittently into the almost- Autumn interlude– a gentle foretaste of the cold to come. The last butterflies of summer flit among the blossoming Goldenrod and browning Joe Pie Weed.
The beauty of Fall is the beauty of a dying season. It is the season of death– an alternative to the dew-like bloom of youth in Spring.
When I was very young, I felt death in nature. I could feel what it must feel like to be a tree or a flower—to just “be”—the Buddhist dictum which I cannot now master. In my late twenties, my mind broke into smithereens like shattered glass, and I had a choice to make between going on psych meds or going to hospital. I chose the former and have lived some 40 years more with that choice. I will not say it was a happy choice, at the risk of sounding ungrateful, because I have become driven into a fury of manic activity and self-seeking in stark contrast to the just “being” of my early youth. The psych meds have dispelled my “egolessness” which, in turn, makes me more able to “function”– at a price. For I no longer feel the waves of peace lapping at the shores of my mind and my religious feelings have, comparatively speaking, shriveled up like the summer flowers in the Fall. “It’s always a trade-off” I am told over and over again. My doc told me once that I am one of the lucky ones because for some people the meds don’t work at all. That shut me up and those words periodically pump gratitude into my system. I have remained med-compliant mainly because the meds have kept me out of hospital, DO allow me to function, and, most importantly, I have discovered that being able to function means allowing me to love.
And although more self-seeking, paradoxically this med-induced functionality allows me to give back to the world. My gift is to describe the “just- being” in nature that was imprinted indelibly on my mind when I was young. Death seemed beautiful to me then, a state of simply being at one with the soul of nature. Now I confess to a fear of dying, rather than a fear of death, but most of all, a fear of loss of the love of my life. For we are in the September of our lives and all is intensified now that we are more aware of our finiteness. Truth be told this was always potentially the case, but we lived, like most youth, in the inevitable delusion of immortality.
So I function now at the cost of loss of my revered altered states of consciousness. Perhaps I am in September mind, channeling words and images of the beauty of nature that flooded me long ago are a mere trickle now, as my time to “just be,” once more for this time round, approaches.
MOONSIDE 
I was also saddened by the feeling of.an impending loss of love and light,
As I was taking photos of flowers wilting in the dark of night.
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September 7, 2013 at 4:12 PM
Loss of love– a biggie.The hardest challenge for me. Loss of light, okay for me. Taking pictures of dying flowers in the night sounds very interesting.
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September 7, 2013 at 8:32 PM
Yes it was interesting. A friend said—I bet you give your neighbors a lot to talk about! Wandering outside at night, taking pictures of flowers you can barely see.
Probably. hahaha!
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September 7, 2013 at 8:40 PM
Yes, a funny image and I’m sure your neighbors are wagging their tongues. Good for you! Give them something to talk about.
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September 7, 2013 at 11:07 PM
you are amazing – I relate to so much of what you’ve written here – perhaps there’s a universal outlook for we folks “of a certain age”
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September 8, 2013 at 8:45 AM
So glad it resonated for you. Your comment made my day. This is my main motivation for writing.
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September 8, 2013 at 3:03 PM
Winter is like some monster waiting to pounce on us all with its horrid gloomy, cloudy, cold weather.
It reminds me of the great poem by Shakespeare:
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see no enemy
But winter and rough weather.
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September 10, 2013 at 2:30 AM
Thank you for that treasure from WS. Very apt. To be honest, I do love winter. The gloom is very egosyntonic.
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September 10, 2013 at 11:46 AM
Oh my goodness! Incredible article dude! Many thanks,
However I am experiencing troubles with your RSS.
I don’t know why I am unable to subscribe to it.
Is there anyone else getting similar RSS problems? Anyone
who knows the answer can you kindly respond? Thanks!!
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September 11, 2013 at 10:44 PM
Thank you. I am afraid I can’t help you– no one else has complained.
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September 13, 2013 at 2:16 PM