With Summer’s rise comes Summer’s fall; we know it though we are not concerned, because we know it has to be, otherwise it is madness. How Summer falls though, is into ripeness, and the road to decay. Is imperceptibly into darkness, which brings the potential of both damage and wisdom. Summer falls into experience, and into our humanity.
I don’t, of course, mean these things literally. The poetry of the year, spiritually, is exactly that. It is metaphorical and elusive. But in this brilliance and heat, this banner of individuality and creativity, is the lesson our hearts learn, about love and wholeness, or whatever it is we meet, and what it does to us, and what we become thereafter.
I always wonder about why we have come here. If it was for the suffering entailed, that would be a pretty strange reason. If it is for pleasure, that would make far more sense, but there is a lot that falls far short of that. If it is just to get back to where we came from, that would be more absurd than anything.
But coming here, existing as apparently separate beings, it involves the most baroque kind of risk. The most obscure chance. But in that chance, the chance of love.
I used to think that we could only have come here in order to love, and to learn love. I still think that is basically true. Love is still the Law; and the Will that lies at the heart of the creative, loving predicament we find ourselves in, it retains an invisible, implied place, waiting to be realized.
Summer’s fall is a drama that vaguely conceals the mystery of what has happened to us, and things we find in experience that touch us deeply. If I leave the standard symbolism of esotericism and religion, it is because I consider such a wooden sense of symbolism to be a failure. It is virtually the opposite of what it should be, in order to give anything. Let it be nuanced, suggestive, vague even, but let it be individual and deeply felt. Make it art. Make it your art.
Breathe out, and walk through the dry pine needles of the forest, in the hazy heat and fragrance. Summer is falling, just as we did, long ago.
It isn’t “the aim of religion, the method of science”. It’s more like the aim of love, the method of art.