All day I have dawdled and drifted. The gossamer sheers swell in the withdrawing room. The air is uncommonly fresh and clean, the temperature acceptably warm, the cumulus is breaking up to give a lovely summer evening. I squared my Protestantism with an early morning bicycle ride followed by a blissful lounge on the garden patio in the midday sunshine spilling from the azure sky above as I ritually pointed my face into eternity.

The languor of a perfect summer day in late July has overtaken me. Is this not precisely what we wish for? How often, how strenuously, must we be reminded of the ideal circumstance when at hand? Is there a verdant field in which to lie, a moment to dissolve the cobwebs of one’s mind, to allow oneself to disappear into the vapours? To loosen the earthly tethers, to disappear from the boundary of thought and concern?

The division between the currency and projection is also in a state of faintness and lassitude. I allow my consciousness to touch up the latest profits of organization and application. Our ambitions are seemingly endless, always provoking a new scope of occupation and preparation. How happily I indulge myself in the successive peculiarities of my being! Mine is an uncomplicated perspective. The ingredients of both fruition and fortuity are to me unmistakeable. It is perhaps this tranquillized state of mind which nourishes the imperceptible maturing of spirituality.

Gripped close about me is the artistic image of transience. I proclaim the metaphor of abundance and beauty, the symbol to which I attach, the singularity of impression within my capacity to hold and carry, my overrule of impermanence. To this I have abandoned my corporeal whole. Shamefully I defeat the bludgeon of mediocrity.