Wholistic Fitness

My seasoned Students already knew; here it comes;

old man ilg’s elegy for September.

Geez, you’d think I woulda grown outta of such seasonal sentiment by now, eh?  Yet, the spiritual tease of this particular September is more intense than a stoned night at the Rubber Room because I’m finally back in my h(om)etown for the first time since my decade long LA Dharma Mission and somehow fathering the planet’s most adorable and wise Rinpoche.   This makes the slow slipping away of September even more excruciatingly intoxicating.

I am like an addict to the weakening gazes of Grandfather Sun’s embrace upon my bare skin as i boulder, run, climb, and cycle on this orgasmic brink of winter.  Office time is forced…Outside time is a sensual romp within what is most vitally still human.  Ilg pities those who live not in four seasons; seems a travesty to the soul.  I’m not so much breathing these days as I am suckling each inhale like a hungry infant attacking the nipple on these last treasured warm astral arms of Grandfather’s arms.

What makes the bliss of a Durango September so potent is the fact that you’re standing right in the middle of a gold mine; the aspens turning,  the amber rays of fleeting afternoons while ripping some shale singletrack along Raider Ridge…slow pedaling home while marveling at the geese skulling a Twilight sky over the Ganges of the San Juans.  It’s hard to imagine, as I lay a skid on my mountain bike into the garage longer even than the perma-grin on my face from my mountain biking high.

The gold mine will soon be covered, equally skillfully and equally beautifully, by a pandemonium of snow.  That same snow will inevitably cover my autumn sentiments softly, like a barefoot hobo walking the tracks. My heart swells while I feel my love for autumn in the breeze yet I know that same breeze will soon freeze as it floats away into winter’s cold embrace.

Sometimes I just squat in the sun and simmer like the last of our summer squash and tomatoes.  I, like the squash and tomato, hunger for more lingering warmth, one more Indian Summer embrace before I shovel the snow in the fury of a winter storm.  Aye, the brink of winter is a delicious edge upon which every human soul should dance and dance and dance!

Dewachen holds no such old man, seasonal sentiments;  Barely 3, She is simply enraptured by each moment, as once, were all of we.  Dewa stays hungry only for the moment, not the day, not the season, not the decade.  So, she and I yogi squat together, and eat our moist peaches on the stunted grass. Behind us, we can hear the grosbeaks pester the empty feeder.  Secretly, I glance again and again at my yogini daughter, envying the depth and easy attitude of her yogi squat compared to mine.  Comparison, remember, is a quality of which no yogi should submit. Which is precisely why, ilg is such a feeble yogi.

I find that these final perfect sprees of September sunshine remind me of my Own inner work; sure it’s feeble compared to the Ancient Enlightened Ones, yet it is also empowering…at least to me on my own little Level.

I find these final perfect receding rays from a head-shakingly awesome spring, summer, and autumn to be…

What

It

Is;

Enlightening.

Thank you, September, for thy Grace.

You will remembered Here, Now

and Forever… having been pecked upon my humble Tribal Cave Walls by my clumsy cyber petroglyphs known as Blogging.

So, the Fat Lady? She sings a September song through me to you and to all of yours and to all Beings Everywhere;

Blessed be all,

Rever(the)End ilg