It’s September, getting cooler, still a bit of late summer warmth.  We had a very hot long dry summer for the northwest.  Some of us liked it, some of us didn’t.  I crave the rain and left the northeast because of the dry long hot summers.

In any case, this morning walking through the park, the dry dusty hot morning park, I heard a frog.  A deep bass plunking call from the depth of the browning green bushes.  A frog.  He is calling for a mate so late in the wrong season.  This frog song reminds me that seasons are not real.  This dry season for me is not to be believed.  Somehow.

The breathing that keeps my chest moving up and down is real.  Clicking keys is real.  Wet hair.  Socks.  Watch on my wrist. 

What if all I really have is gratitude?  What if that is what it’s all about?  Why can’t I be addicted to gratitude as I was with alcohol, pot, now caffeine and controlled Mt. Dew drinking?  What is it about bad stuff–slow stupid suicide in some ways–that is so attractive?  Why can’t I wake up feeling grateful, optimistic, happy to be alive no matter what?

Not a saint.  But my Love doesn’t care.  The Path is beneath my feet.  I am safe.  I am loved.  That is the most real thing.