Things

So many layers that keep me from true contact:

I am too weary for tearing lettuce into salad,
I am too busy to sew this button back on.
Everything rides on a cushion of paper money (or hovers on credit's forced air); the love of one thing fades in the infection of desire for another.

There's nothing wrong with things: people have always loved things, proudly woven and embroidered for the dowry and jumped in delight when the peddler came. Music and books: some things aren't even really things.
The trouble is being true to things, to my love for them.
Once the shirt hangs in my closet, let me wear it, launder and mend. Once the cup is in the cupboard, let me pour in boiling water, drink the tea, rinse the cup and set it to dry, without wishing for any other thing.

Go to the next one, Letting Go.

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