With Labor Day comes discontent. Restlessness. Not unhappiness, just this frank evaluation of the harvest and the growing list of ways it could have been better. The pensive side of drive.

See, I've pretty much determined I run on a farming calendar. I'm not sure what determines a person's calendar - ancestry, reincarnation, natural climate. Perversity. I think probably there are a bunch of different ones, though.

There's been a lot of discussion of such things around here because for my teacher, of course, it's a brand new year. One where she's building on what she did before; one full of hope. In the spring, her work is bearing fruit, or at least getting measured, and then winding down.

The combination of hope and harvest is a big improvement osver my former corporate life, where seasons had no meaning; they were only peripherally experienced between tinted-window offices and cars, and on a few stray weekends. Backdrops, scenery, while you're having a cigarette.

Without fail, I hunker down at the approach of the winter solstice. Cook, decorate. Make light, color, warmth, taste, sound to offset the invading black death some people like to call winter. I take my winter holidays very seriously. Expect an event.

Then I'm all about the plans. Every year I plan a big meeting in January which I rarely actually hold. But the planning is everything. In the process, I've named all the people whose gifts I hope will help me realize my plans for the year; identified the things I need them to know, found words to explain it. Named the gifts I can offer in return. I make lists. Budgets. I get new things, pass others on.

Spring is spring. Read the poems. Look outside next time it shows up. Most people like it. I find it a little scary.

I begin forcing myself out of the house, sticking my toe into streams. It takes till about August before I can stand in the water without going numb, actually comfortable with the rhythm of the waves.

And with Labor Day comes discontent. Too few apples, or maybe they're just not as big or as red as we'd hoped. Is that roof going to make it through another winter? You know, so-and-so always does that.

I always end up overly focused on the stuff that was planted just a little too late. The idea's rock solid; it's ready to go. Plus it's one of the newer ones, and I always love them with the most unchecked fervor. And now the earth is richer, the evenings cooler, the air damper, but... no. If it didn't get planted till late summer, it just ain't gonna bloom this year. It'll come back strong next year.

As must I. Thus, in another month or two, the making of light, color, taste and sound. In the meantime there is so much to be grateful for, to count, to note for next year. Let's call it a time of harvest and hope.

Till then, just the counting, the making notes for next year.

Peace in all seasons,

PS: See also "Indian Summer" from One Hand Tied (April '99).

You can buy One Hand Tied at CD Baby, but you can't listen to this song there, so you'll have to do it by clicking the song title. It's your only chance.