be the heroine.

I feel like a time traveler: June, July, August. Summer dissolves in my mouth and I can’t remember what it tasted like.

“In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs.”

While the idea of soul may be too amorphous for many, we must retain it precisely in order to honor its ambiguity, its elusiveness. Our ancestors lived in an ensouled world, which we today call animism. . . . All of us in regressed states project psyche onto nature and onto others. Whether soul is in fact there is unimportant. What matters is that in such venues one may experience the depth, the intimation of mystery, which constitutes the soul. Such intimations are strangely familiar, for they are encounters with what we carry as well.