Things accumulated over yearsconcern us when we slow down enoughto see how they've anchored us.We've lived under the illusion thatthey love us as much as we love them—these gifts from friends and lovers:horse-covered pillows, tree paintings andprints, a fuzzy green shawl, the angel-winged begonia, carved maple bowls andpine boxes, scented candles, ceramicbirds and glass cats, brightly featheredbutterflies—more and more everywhere.
But that’s a trick of a mind that thinksmemories flow from those things and notour own bodies. So now we touch thingsand let them go in twos and threes.We find we didn’t need anchors.We’re ships nurtured by memories weco-create, but we root like flowersto earth, her weather, life and gravity. Wematured and aged in the spirit thatconspires with earth to create and to die.And after all, is this a mystery thatwe need years and decades to discern?
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© 2021 Susan L. Chast