"So we have to be idealists in a way.....If you don't recognize a young man's will to meaning, man's search for meaning,  you make him worse, you make him dull, you make frustrated, you add and contribute to his frustration....If you presuppose in this man--in this so-called criminal or juvenile delinquent-- there must be a spark for meaning--let's recognize this, let's presuppose it and then you will elicit it from him and you will make him become what he is principally capable of becoming" 

So it's that time again. 

Every year around this time I write a sappy entry/poem about the crisp air and the earth tone palate of the fall. I usually try to describe the season by talking extensively about the insatiable desire for tea and all things pumpkin around September 21st. I get upset when the cool fall air is delayed by summer-like heat on September 6th. I get angry when the leaves delay turning orange because dammit! It's October, and the season might end before I can go on a few runs in the Gordon woods, host a poetry reading or two, knit, fill the kitchen with the smell of apple cider and cinnamon, go to an Apple Orchard in Ipswich, reminisce about my childhood, read Annie Dillard by a fire (in someone's house with a fire-place) and pretend that I like squash. 

Love, 

Ms. Sap

P.S. I'm so excited that autumn is upon us!