It is just four days from the Turning. The season of abundance is supposed to be upon us as the goddess turns the wheel towards the dark of the year. We have already lost a half an hour of light. The leaves of fruit trees are yellow, many drifting like butterflies to the ground, prematurely. The ground is sodden, like walking on sponge. Cicadas coax down the sun on the few days we have seen it since the beginning of June. A few crickets have joined the chorus. In the fields the goldenrod is painting a golden haze over emerald and lime. The quality of that green belies the changing season. No wheat- colored grasses. Flowers bloom on with a determination that reveals nature’s intention to survive. Torrential rains pour down silver sheets from the sky obliterating the possibility of peering out to see the hummingbirds dip and soar, sip bee balm nectar. Fog is a constant companion on my pre-dawn walks – the only time I can listen to birds when the air quality is clean. That three – mile walk is my sanity and sometimes my only exercise. By 8 AM some mornings the air is already reaching the poisoning stage. Most days the windows stay shut. ‘Moderate’ is wishful thinking. If a morning sun burns through the clouds the invisible killer starts burning my eyes if I step out the door to sit on the porch. Inside, the humidity is so high that I am chilled; never below 75.
Continue reading “The Flood by Sara Wright”
Towards the end of 
Feminism and Religion 