Looking out over the garden in late August, I see the flowers entering the final stage of the season. The Black-eyed Susan blooms are fading, producing seeds that the goldfinches love. The verbenas along the sidewalk have given up, no longer able to take the heat reflected off the cement.
I have always given credit to impressionist painters for the juxtaposition of colors in my garden. Purple shades are next to yellow hues, and red crocosmia flutes are surrounded by greens. The bellflowers, the closest to being blue, are next to purples, and the only orange blooms have a yellow
So It May Secretly Begin (listen) is a song track from my favorite Pat Metheny album, Still Life (Talking). I have listened to this album, especially this song, hundreds of times—driving, falling asleep, studying, romancing. I like its fluid elegance. It starts softly, tentatively, as if expressing contemplation or uncertainty. As it