Life is lived in the present for the morrow… At home my wife opens a bottle of cava to celebrate the fiesta mayor in our village. I can hear folklore rising from the abrupt streets of the town in the form of drumming and primitive slightly off-tune flutes, plus the click clack of the traditional stick dance. Today is also the eve of San Juan, when Catalans traditionally celebrate summer solstice with family get-togethers, gathering of neighbors, fireworks and bonfires, demons and drums; an enduring endearing pagan celebration with hazardous displays of Dionysian pyrotechnics. On the north side of the house the balcony off my office overlooks peach saplings in the orchard below. Over the highway, the train tracks and beyond the miles of vineyards, I can see the explosions of all-night fireworks erupting from the towns and hamlets on the skirts of mystical Montserrat. On the south side I can feel the town’s heartbeat.
It’s a good time to let go, to burn something in the village bonfire as a gesture to genuine non-attachment. I’m dominated by fire according to my naturopath, and ire according to an esoteric erudite of the Enneagram. I write RAGE on a piece of paper and toss it onto the pyre…
“An inner wholeness presses its still unfulfilled claims upon us.” Emma Jung
