The fog’s rolled in, bringing the early night on even earlier, and the mornings coming late now, darkness tucking in around us on all sides. In this season of lessening light, I am grateful for the warmth and brightness in the people in my life, and the community living on this lovely spot of land I call home.

Today was a treat. Dona and I getting some girl time to talk shop about men, kids, work and what we are learning in this life, uninterrupted over a fancy lunch and drinks at Suda.? We headed back across town, stopping by the Verve 5th Anniversary Party replete with all things Santa Cruz foodie good being offered for free: Mary’s cookies, cupcakes, Feel Good Foods, Penny Creamery and a DJ rocking it as we toured their roastery and top secret labs.? Arriving westide we picked up my second hot date for the day and her dad to head north up the coast for the Freewheelin Farms Harvest Party.

Discovered there: more good food, friends, fantastic music, haybales, dogs, and crimson kobocha squash marking the path from the beach up through the fields. Harvest time, and how wonderful is mine this life. No need, no need, to be afraid of winter dark on its way. Plenty, plenty, to keep me warm.


Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun’s brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can’t hear

anything, I can’t see anything —
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker —
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing —
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet —
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn’s beautiful body
is sure to be there.

~ Mary Oliver ~