It is the last, and the best, of basking weather for the year. Turtles on rocks in ponds do it. People with books and barbecues on riverbanks do it. Birds breast-deep in rivers seem to do it, those knee-deep fishers, too. Blue herons do it flying it seems, their great wings on a low, slow beat, tips grazing the water, their reflections glimmering, transforming them into signs like the eight of infinity. Basking is highly recommended. It is through and through softening: bellies soften, breath softens, lips soften, smiles happen. Time dissolves and you are gentled.
Yesterday, I sat on the banks of the river under a tree on a stone throne, alone. Along the path had been elegant pampas grass poking out of the wilderness like paintbrushes loaded with light. There were stretches of cheerful yellow goldenrod and leafless persimmon trees extravagant with fruit, swaying bamboo, a recently pruned smart-smelling pine, some rickety boats with fishing nets stowed, a few ancient-looking ever- peaceful stone jizo, a red bridge and a few fishermen. From my perch, hills filled my view. Green from afar, closer they showed signs of creeping autumnal rust. Under a perfect blue sky and backdropped by the nearby hills I beheld -yes, beheld!- the first shocking 'burning bush' of the season. Ducks made their funny little kazoo sounds, crows harped and harped, a cormorant erupted flapping from the water, a heron barked as it came in for landing. An ordinary day in bird land it was.
But I, in the presence of this fiery and most resplendent glory took off my shoes. Arise, awake the tree said and the choir sang (serendipitously?) Byrd's Haec Dies. "This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us be glad and rejoice in it. Alleluia!" Captivated, I had no desire except to surrender. Shadows lengthened, the waters turned to liquid gold. I laid down this day, in the presence of a gracious, gentle refining fire, joining the wisdom and delight of creation, and I basked.
