In meditation today I think of my ancestors, all the way back to Neanderthal and Cro Magnon and before.  Each month is sacred, but I, one son, and my grandson were born in this month, so, for me, there is an extra preciousness.  Leaves change color and fall, and I recognize we are moving  toward November when the veil between the living and the dead is thin. 

Today, eyes slightly open, I saw the oak tree outside the window shaking. First one squirrel and then another, and another were running up and down shaking the branches of the tree like a wild and crazy breeze.  Then, they’d pause to eat an acorn, then scurry along.

I was reminded of a poem from my childhood from The Book House.  

Whisky, Frisky

Whisky, frisky,

Hippity hop.

Up he goes

To the tree top!

Whirly, twirly,

‘Round and ’round.

Down he scampers

To the ground.

Furly, curly,

What a tail!

Tall as a feather,

Broad as a sail.

Where’s his supper?

In a shell.

Snappy, cracky,

Out it fell.

Pumpkin Patch

What’s real?

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