RAKING LEAVES

The morning winds threatened to re-ignite my quiet burn pile. In slippers and robe I grabbed the hose to dowse the deep heat still generating from the night. So pleasant a morning, I returned in Levi's and sweatshirt to clean up our weekend construction site. In the process the rake landed in my hands: so began the rhythmic task so many householders perform this time of year.

Gray clouds, blustery grand sweeps of winds from the Western mountains--the day was glorious, a bit chilly, threatening rain but not snow. Clearing the path from the house to the shop, and seeing the leaves then sweep back across the still-green grass, I wondered: why are you moved to do this impossible task? It seemed I was raking my untidy concepts, drying with age, into piles that then would be scattered once again across the landscape of my mind. Oh, how the need for control moves through me! I so want tidy thoughts. Consistent, supportive, and dependable ideas. No wandering around in a flurry of confusion, no covering over the paths of self I have forged through the years. With a hilarious cackle, I relinquished the rake to scuff my sneakered feet through the rustling debris of an abundant summer. Thoughts? Debris of a rich life, freely shed, now to compost for another season.