September has an agenda. It begins to shut us down. Because it is cooler, we close the doors and windows. We begin the transition. I found the summer’s relentless pounding heat unpleasant. If I had wanted to live in Death Valley, Algeria or Iraq, I would have purchased a ticket and packed my body armour sunscreen.

We were protected this year from the toxic air lung destruction of past years. The fires were mostly far away. Because only other people suffered, I did not have to think of it. The flooding of past years that washed away the highway and isolated communities was not part of our story this year. Because only other people suffered, I did not have to think of it.

And then at the end, as if to remind us not to celebrate too soon the toxic air floated in for a week to obscure the hills, obstruct the breathing and send us indoor with windows firmly closed.

It fascinates me how my defacto setting is “separation.” Not me is the first message on my assessment dial. I observe myself following the stone path laid out for me by my culture. The lines, the boundaries, the subsets of reality so carefully drawn that rule my thoughts.

September is not summer. It is more contemplative, reclusive, and harder to know. Is it predictive, is it compliant with some nature Gods that rule the universe?

We just sit back and observe it. It is like driving on a highway and going up into the hills. Will there be fog, ice, and danger around the corner?

The volunteer pumpkin lantern plants were profuse this year. The blackberries baked on the bushes. The grapes began well but were eaten by the animals living under my shed. Everywhere around me I see that there is no probable outcome. It is a game of chance this living on the earth.

I watch September’s days expecting some form of climate insanity to manifest. I do this to protect myself. I want to be ready for whatever happens next that I can’t possibly know. That pattern of logic is the very definition of instability.

Where are you taking us September? What next?