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I Know . . .

I do not believe . . . I know . . .   Carl Jung

It grounds me, brings me into the NOW, when I ask myself, “What do I know?”  I’m not asking myself for an encyclopedic litany of what I’ve learned in this lifetime to date; I’m simply posing the question, “What do you know, Helen, in this moment, as you sit here at your computer, with a few minutes to type up a blog?”  And it always surprises me, what arises as I respond to this query.  So here I am, with ten minutes to spare, before heading over to Joy Center for yoga, and a curiosity for what will emerge.  What do I know?

I know.

I know there is nothing quite like it, to pluck raspberries from your very own bushes, whole handfuls of them like I did today, to plop them in your mouth, warm and ripe and full of summer.

I know that summer soaks in deeply up here in the north, that a thick humid day like this one, settles into my bones, and I can call it back, the breeze rustling the aspen leaves, the smell of balsam, the sticky sweat on my skin, as I shiver in the white woods of a crisp and freezing January morning.

I know that summer is only half over, even if the ads would like us to believe otherwise, that today is Lammas, the center-point between summer solstice and fall equinox, a time to celebrate the early harvest (the raspberries, the first ripe cucumber), and to ask yourself, “What is still blossoming that wants to ripen into this second half of summer?”

I know that I’m ripe with this blossoming, and ready for more manifestations.

I know that I love walking barefoot on the rocky shoreline of Lake Superior, that I also did this as child in coastal Maine.  I scampered across the granite and over the sharp-pointy barnacles, to the soft carpet of seaweed and the waves that swished in and out.  I know that the tides are still in me and the salt and the sea, that we carry our homes inside of us, that sometimes in the summer I smell the sea in the waters of the great lake that I love.

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