I hate myself in winter.
I am as cold and silent as a leafless forest, with an underbrush of timid dry sticks and invisible
I went to Sedona on a vision quest many months ago. I sat in a prayer room filled with the smoke of tobacco, juniper and sweet grass. A man moved the smoke around us with an eagle feather and I saw spring.
A savage green spring so far in the future it felt like a date I will never live to see.
He handed us a pouch filled with the unused tobacco and told each of to release it back to the earth. It represents your worries.
Drop it in a river, he said, or toss it off a cliff on a windy day. It doesn’t belong to you. It was on loan. And now you must give it back.
It sat for months on my dresser. Willingly giving. I didn’t want to let it go. I was the bad friend who borrows a book and never gives it back.
But, winter’s filled with worry, so, what’s a little more. I gave it back.
I tied a piece of jute string to it, grabbed a ladder from the basement and hung it from a limb of an evergreen that I can see from my great window.
And there I watched my worries, from a distance, through glass.
I watched as birds flew near to catch a glimpse of the new, yellow object dangling from a limb. Like a jewel it sparkled against a backdrop of gray sky. The cold, hazy sunlight nudged through the grayness and said, There you are. And the wind and sun took back its possession and set me toward spring.
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