It’s a warm summer morning so rich it’s permeating me with that particular smell only fresh summer mornings have. I am blessed for this morning, really, I feel the blessing to my bone centers. I feel it calling back my childhood heart that was so wild and joyous and—what?—integrated. I am hearing my calling, hearing it, like standing on a cliffside above the ocean, seeing as far as one can see, hearing as far as one can hear, not just with mind and body, but with soul. I am hearing as far as I can hear with my soul. 
My mind and my body are being wrapped in my soul’s soft morning shawl permeated by summer light and summer smell. Summer, in the land of my people of the North country, is distinct.
I imagine that people who can love living somewhere with less dramatic seasons are more evolved than me. My cavewoman self, who is still a hunting/gathering genetic, needs seasons to understand life and my place in it. I need these mornings when I land in my writing position to a crisp clean morning dawn in several layers of wool that get discarded one at a time until I’m nearly naked and my skin is laughing from the sun before I have even finished my meditation.
Listen for just a minute, can you hear it? Really listen. The whole natural world is alive. It has something rich and old to share. In the summer mornings it tells kind things about nourishment, about how you are loved. If you have forgotten, run, run for your life out-of-doors, even if to just a place you can see a square inch of sky. Run prisoner, run outside, escape! Escape just to see and hear and feel the touch of the sun on your skin.

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