The slackening of the growing season induces a folding inward, a mental oscillation from tending outer gardens to cultivating inner terraces. I muse and fill myself with light. Are there predatory thoughts on the horizon, invasive seeds of suffering hidden in the darkness, toxic drift carried on the wind? Have my most deeply rooted plantings been taken over by the entangling brambles of business? Are there more wild places unknown to me? Carl Jung famously said, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”





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