Hi gang, the week got away from me in a big way and it was hard to get some focus on this. Thanks for everybody’s patience. Here goes for my turn:
There is a story that sometimes circulates about lost things becoming found again. It is thought that objects, once misplaced, become untrustworthy, unreliable: a found knife can never be used because it will turn on its wielder; a map will lead its user to an inescapable swamp; or that even a person suspected of having lost their way will betray their loved ones. The most vivid version of this tale is that memories themselves will become ghosts that draw the living away from their homes with false visions of their own past, where they themselves will be lost. Most people are unafraid of these unreliable objects and memories day-to-day, but it’s not uncommon to hear old stories of lone travelers being scrutinized for fear of having been lost on their journey at some point.
Having shared that folktale, I’m going to act on a routine and send a letter to a stranger:
I usually write with a view through my window into the garden, but it was stormy all day today, and so I wrote in the warm kitchen, seated at my long counter. This letter is to a poet whose work I read recently, and while normally I enjoy sending these letters, I had some trepidation on sealing this one, dropping it into the mailbox. I was suddenly concerned that the poet would be so shy that they would be uncomfortable at receiving my letter, or perhaps that they would even reject it. By the time the mail carrier waved upon picking up the letter — knowing my habit, of course — that feeling of unease had mostly fled, and I had turned my attention to my next task:
I want to make a plan to host a meal.