06 June 2011

Travel Light

I've been doing so much work around the yard and garden these past weeks that I've become rather familiar with just about every corner of the property.  I can tell you what's growing where, what's on its way out, where things will go in, how well drained different spots are, where the sunlight falls, etc.

I have secrets, too, like where the bulbs that bloomed in one spot this year will bloom next spring.

And I have plans as well, like which things I'll move once the season is over ("Why did I put that there?" I wonder), and what I'd like to do along the fence south of the deck.

Then I remember:  None of this is mine.  I do not belong here.  I will not stay here.

Of course, this has always been true for everything I've ever set about doing, and there is nothing in life (or in death, for that matter) that will change that.

None of this is mine.  I do not belong here.   I will not stay here.

At every turn, with everything I do, there is a corresponding invitation to let go, to move on.  Even as I say hello to the new plants in the yard I ready myself to say goodbye.  As they bloom, I anticipate their dying back.  As I do the work of putting them in, I know they will more than likely be pulled out by someone else before too very long.

None of this is mine.  I do not belong here.  I will not stay here.

In a way, none of this is my doing.  I no more chose to be here working the garden than I chose to have blue eyes.  I just happen to be in the right place at the right time with the right schedule and the right ability. 

None of this is mine.  I do not belong here.  I will not stay here.

Wittgenstein was one of the most resolutely silent and eremitical of thinkers.  The only advice he was known to give was "Travel light."

As we are all in the process of moving on, what better counsel could anyone offer?

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