What am I doing here?

End of summer holds something magical, the time of letting go. The time where daylight shortens, the air still warm and yet cold feeling like freshly washed linen. The landscape dissolves in flames for every leave to fall and strip naked. Naked into the winter cold to turn inside to find warmth.

I need to run, run from the storm that is chasing me. I’ve seen the eye of the storm in vision, in writing, in surrender, in tears. The storm rages on nowhere to settle nowhere to set to shore. Circling in endless misery unbroken and wild. I need to run now, impulsive stepping out the door bare feet unprepared to run till break point.

Run, until my legs can’t carry me anymore, until my breath breaks the rhythm, until I am mentally broken. Bare-feet unceasing for miles through known bush over pavement to places where memory can’t recall. I expected for my chest to burn in my untrained body, impulsive as I had just ran out the door. keeping a steady pace surprised in my stamina. I had not taken time to stretch, my calves where slowly turning into concrete.

I’ve nothing to prove other than self-applause. I don’t know the distance, I don’t know the time, but I know the reason for impulsively running out the door.

Acclimatizing my hot and sweaty body I hear the storm catching up on me. I’m only the viewer of the lightning and the listener of the thunder. Rain comes over me as the comport of a warm shower. Melodies Of Forest And Springs overcome the noises of the ongoing traffic. Cross-legged, eyes closed on the wooden floor, surrendered, naked.

Many souls have gathered at the bonfire the gentle guitar makes two worlds become one. This is my sanctuary, this is where I’ll go.

Here on the wooden floor in the country without the mountain where fast life, business, money, power, materialism, macho, is wrapped in plastic and electronic gadgets.

This is not my place.

It’s not my place I don’t have to prove myself, I don’t have to be anyone. Blend in only by being myself, let my opinion unspoken. Listening is saying more than words.

My place.

My place is in nature, the wooden house, the fireplace cooking stove, a wall full of books, the cushioned couch, the horses and the dog. Somewhere between river and pine.

This is not my place but should I run? Should I go and explore or should I stay where the fruit is sweet?

Then comes the acceptance,

This is not my place, I’m only passing through, I’ll stay for a little until the time has come. The end of summer has something beautiful, it’s the time to let go. Let my leaves fall turn inside, nurture the soul and Listen in silence by crackling of the fireplace.

Ignore the things that don’t serve don’t try to change, only listen, this is not your place, you’re only passing through. Look outside the window let life flow.

Before me is a blank page, the future written in the stars. Rowing on the gentle stream not to fast not to slow. Work has to be done, work in my own house. Light the fire before winter cold and enjoy the view outside. This is not my place, a humble traveler, there’s nothing to change outside, this is not about me, this is not my place.

Looking back with the knowledge of tomorrow the answers are simple.

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