Shooting arrows with the Moon

Home is still a place a little unknown, hanging on the fringes, nestled between blades of grass. I'm happy and sad to be back in familiar rooms, back in familiar dialogue, thoughts and behaviours. Around a crowded table I wondered again if this was the life that I wanted. Under a nearly full Moon I felt again that this was the place I belong.

High Summer again, full of ripening fruits, long sundowns into short nights, and the whispering of fully leaved trees. A chorus of insects is intoxicating; the singing of birds, the heaviness of the air, and the sweetness of each puff of breeze have all come together again under this newly full Moon. I enjoy family; I dislike ever greater the sound of "no". I send out dreams again of what I wish to become and they find gentle places amongst the tendrils of my hair, between the crevices in my toes to take root and remind me of happiness. That walls around the way forward have been broken down like the carefully tended order of the garden. An abundance of life expresses itself in an abundance of weeds as well as vegetables; paths are faded against the greening, and the descernment of vegetable or foe falls to the ancient memory of intution. I once had a rebellious streak, and maybe saying "once" is only fooling myself. Summer brings the space for such emancipation, and I feel a rebellion stirring inside me, a rebellion not so much against, as toward or for. A rebellion for happiness.