IN the words of the old Doors song, summer’s almost gone. How cheery a sentence for this moment, as August comes to an end and September prepares to blow in with blustery winds and mixed weather, and temperatures begin to cool. At least we’re not as gloomy as Doors singer Jim Morrison, who ends the song: “The winter’s coming on, summer’s almost gone”.

Yet isn’t this what we often do? Before we've even reached the end of something enjoyable, we look ahead to something less positive or fun taking its place. Many teachers, who have recently gone back to work for the new school year, have a growing sense of unease as July ends and August begins. People diagnosed with serious illnesses often can’t help but agree with what Robert Burns writes at the end of To A Mouse “An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, I guess an fear!”

Meanwhile, summer’s just almost gone. It’s not gone yet. Even when there are only minutes of sunshine left, literally or metaphorically, we can soak in the richness that those moments give us. Our worries, our concerns, and our pessimistic projections only serve to lay waste to the moments we have right here right now.

So what’s going on in my life right now as I write this? I am in a nice wee room at home where I do my work when I’m not out and about delivering talks or mindfulness sessions, or having meetings with family businesses and others from a variety of walk of life. The room’s temperature is moderate, pleasant. My chair is just the right combination of soft yet sturdy to make my body feel comfortable on it. I’m wearing an old long-sleeved tee shirt and a pair of baggy tracksuit bottoms, and a pair of soft socks on my feet. They all add to the physical sensation of comfort and softness around my body, which makes me mentally feel relaxed but free to think and create in a flowing manner.

Outside my front garden the sun shines, and our tiny wee almost triangular patch of grass is beautifully bright, like the stereotype we give to the island of Ireland when we think of emerald green. It is a delight to my mind, via my eyes. In contrast the two types of pebble stones that surround the grass are quite placid and low-key, which highlights the lawn’s sharpness yet gives the whole garden a solid, firm look.

There are three kinds of long grasses in my range of vision too, all within the small front garden. They are of different shades of wheat colour, some almost bleached blond, others a little bit orange-tinged. They’re all blowing fairly strongly in the breeze, bringing life and movement to the scene. In front of each of two of the clumps of long grass lie solid grey stones, like rocky islands on a dry-stane loch. And that’s what it’s kind of meant to represent, very zen, fairly minimal. It’s pleasing to my eye right now.

So I take a few seconds out from writing to enjoy it. A few seconds becomes 30 seconds. Just soaking in visual experiences that my brain registers as pleasant. I try not to judge it, analyse it, probe it. Just purely and lightly experience it for all it’s worth.

I notice the shadows. Over the near 20 years during which I have practised and developed my own mindfulness I have come to find shadows very aesthetically pleasing. I know for some people that will sound like a pretentious statement, but it just is what it is. I see shadows and really like them. Their shape. Their imprint on the grass right now. On the pebbles. Shadows of trees, branches, the grasses themselves, and as these latter objects blow, of course the shadows flow to and fro on the pebbles. And it is all just a joy.

Summer’s almost gone. The daylight has not too long to go either. It’s after 5pm as I write this. I have a choice. I can choose to think of the coming colder weather, or the darkness which will envelope my garden within the next three or four hours. I choose to absorb the moment and it nurtures me.