And Jackson had known—yes, over there in America—had known that today, October 29, the sky above the ridge would be a lovely azure, the maple leaves fiery orange and red, the beech leaves a dozen different yellows and golds, all of which became, when a breeze swept the ridge, a swirl of glowing embers—stars in the brightest, most gorgeous night. . . . Yes, stars. Stars are what I saw everywhere. The creator’s breath had whistled through a special sort of prism, and now everything was a primary color. I felt as if I’d walked in through palace doors, into the grandest party that the history of the world had ever known. All the guests were of the strongest moral character, all so magnanimous. They were all there to please each other, to please EVERYONE—and that included me.

When a sissy climbs a mountain in may

They call it Opikkari—“The Big Shiny Mountain”—because, well, it is a big and shiny mountain. At least, it is in mid to late October.

I came, as I had in October of 2016, to share my political views with “the stars.”

My political views are rather simple: There is light. It comes from the sun. The leaves of the trees, the green of all the plants, turn the light into energy. The energy feeds us all.

Look up to the gold leaves of the beech,

Think about the lives of each and each,

What they know is so within your reach,

Hear the words with which they beseech.

When a Sissy climbs a mountain in may

To make sure we don’t miss the significance of this, nature performs a little magic for us. Nature takes the light and breaks it up into primary colors. In my eyes, and I hope in yours, too, the primary colors —side by side, vibrant in the shine—are beautiful.

Beauty is truth.

Color in a picture is like enthusiasm in life.

Vincent Van Gogh

Stimulated by the beauty of the primary colors, your lungs become conscious of the deliciousness of the air along this ridge. Your lungs tell your brain—and your weary legs—that they’d like to breathe this type of air and look upon this kind of spectacle for as long as they can breathe.

The spectacle belongs to everyone, and everyone is part of the spectacle.

Your lungs don’t want to hear any excuses.

Respiration.

Inspiration.

There is no blue without yellow and without orange.

Vincent van Gogh

Your lungs, more adamantly than any politician on his tree stump, proclaim this: “Don’t misconstrue what it means to breathe free! Breathing free only means, this lovely air, flowing inside me, flowing inside you, flowing inside all of us, as long as we all live.
It does not mean hording the air. It does not mean pushing a ‘lesser’ pair of lungs off the ridge. It certainly doesn’t mean fouling the air that every other pair of lungs so needs to live joyfully and to know dignity.”

Light, primary colors, sweet air.

Vote.

(from Persimmon Dreams: When you’ve got a spare moment, check out our music/nature videos on our “Persimmon Dreams” YouTube channel, or Steve’s books, When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May and Along the Same Street, available on Amazon, or directly from us. And if you enjoyed this post, consider sharing with others. Thank you!)