Inside the Book.

There's something special

about reading your friends' favorite books--

just because they're their favorites.

When you're reading,

you're not alone:

They're there inside the book with you.

It's like comparing apples and peaches.

It's Fall, guys.

I'd done my ritual,

and I'd officially accepted it.

Coat, socks, rain.

Everything.

But last night at Sprouts,

there was a big ugly empty spot

where the yellow peaches

were supposed to be.

Genevieve asked them to check.

And the handsome clerk came back and said,

"I'm sorry.

That was the last of them."

It felt like a sentence of death.

I got tears in my eyes.

I don't know what my deal is.

This is the twenty-third time

that this earth has shed summer

and put on autumn

since I got here.

But this time I'm taking it hard.

There's beauty to it, of course.

I feel like I can see God

in the snow on the mountaintops,

in the inexorable change of the seasons.

And even though they didn't have peaches,

Sprouts had pallets and pallets

of honeycrisp apples.

On sale.

When I got home,

I hugged my bag of apples

and smelled them

and cried again.

The Last Rose of Summer.

Today is the equinox,

the first day of autumn.

From now on,

there will be no more fresh peaches,

no more sandal tan lines

on the tops of my feet,

no more mosquito bites

on the back of my legs

from lingering in the warm dusk.

For a few weeks it's been coming,

but I couldn't let summer

"go gentle into that good night."

Now, though, the alignment of the planets

has forced me to accept it.

So last night,

Genevieve and I created our own ritual

to bid farewell to summer.

I can accept these things better

when there's a formal

changing of the guard.

We put on long floral dresses

and walked the stream path at night,

gathering flowers and plants,

and weaving them into wreaths.

Holly,

chrysanthemum,

Russian olive,

lavender,

apples,

and the last roses of summer.

We sang hymns about nature,

and quoted poems and scriptures:

Nature's first green is gold, 

Her hardest hue to hold. 

Her early leafs a flower; 

But only so an hour. 

Then leaf subsides to leaf. 

So Eden sank to grief, 

So dawn goes down to day. 

Nothing gold can stay.

Today,

I woke up and it was autumn.

I was glad to see that it was raining.

I put on boots

and listened to the appropriate movement

of Vivaldi's Four Seasons

and ate oatmeal for breakfast.

Farewell, summer.

Until next year.

I'd like to spend an hour or two with you.

(I know I'm idealistic,

but bear with me.)

This is how I view dates:

A boy calls you up

and says,

"Hi.

I'd like to spend an hour or two with you--

just us.

I've been wanting some dedicated time

to appreciate everything about you

worth appreciating."

And you say,

"Yes! I'd love that.

I'd love the chance

to appreciate everything about you

worth appreciating."

A date isn't necessarily about being in love,

but it is about love.

The real kind.

I don't have a good experience

if I spend the whole time asking myself

Am I having fun?

Does he think I'm funny?

Am I proud to be seen with him?

But if I notice

his laugh next to me in the movie theater,

his hand gestures while he drives,

the reverent way he says my name,

the glimmer when he talks about the things he loves,

I have a better time.

I like when

an hour or two of

doing some activity or another

becomes a holy experience,

because I get to bask in the grandeur

of another human being.

Sometimes,

you get a call out of the blue

from a boy who is very easy to appreciate.

And then the smile on your face

when you tell him yes

is real and unsuppressible,

because you know that an evening appreciating him

is going to be a delight.

And that is the best.

There's a certain slant of light.

My favorite time of day

is when the sun is about to set,

and the slant of light

lands just so on the mountains.

And then they are lit up golden brown

and reddish,

and every crack

and crevice

and corner

draws its own long shadows

on the glowing rock face.

Footloose.

I think sandals should be worn

until you're going to get frostbite

walking from the curb to the door.

Today, I was shortsighted enough
to wear socks & boots
just because
it was raining when I left the house.

Thirty minutes later,
it had cleared up
and warmed up.

And I was the loser
who had to wear socks
all
day
long

God Grew Tired of Us.

This week at International Cinema,

I saw

God Grew Tired of Us,

a documentary about Sudanese refugees

and their new life in America.

It was made in this century,

but these boys coming to the U.S.

had never even used electricity.

They had fled as children

and grown into men

in exile.

And it made me wonder,

which is worse?

Staying in a refugee camp

with your friends and brethren,

with little to eat

and not much prospect of a future?

Or coming to the U.S.

and working long hours

at thankless jobs

and spending precious little time each day

with the people you love?

I don't think

there's an easy answer for that.