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 A New Moon this evening – a new beginning, new cycle.

Is it time to praise the promise of each day lived with curiosity, caring, soft steps and delight in the perfumed first Santa Rosa plums from my tree? The branches are bowing low from the weight of dark purple riches. This fruit is special, the skin slightly sour, the yellow flesh sweet, marbled with red and pink. Each plum a princess, a precious fragrant marvel. I like to pick them when ready to fall into my palm.

And the delicate sensation brings up spontaneous memories: as little kids we climbed over fences, up neighbors' cherry or apricot trees, stealing fruit that went right into the mouth – the guilty sizzle and freedom of summer nights. Returning home with purple smeared lips, hoping no-one will complain. We could have asked and be given perhaps. But no, the secret excursions vibrated with delicious danger. 

As much as I like to share – friends, please come by and pick some plums – I am glad that the current brood of three young squirrels have not yet discovered them this year. Every generation learns from parents or has to rediscover. The hawk has been around and helps to keep the overpopulation of these creatures down. I delight in their agility chasing each other around the cork oak's trunk, then up and down the other oaks’ branches – these little acrobats fly high. Daring my own heart to leap, sensing the currents of new possibilities.

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