i stand to move to the studio. YOU ISOLATE the voice says. well i do live in the woods, my microforest, my hermitage. ok. instead, i stand, move with the gentle meal herd whom appeal. meander to the thrift. watch them mull over worn once loved things. it reminds me of a previous life with less than gentle female mulling overs, always new, yet unloved. now 50 cents, then 150 bucks. it is still a mulling, a harvesting. frankly, it is still shopping, still compulsive acquiring. its more a pattern than problem. a harvesting of having, innately human. i relax into it, picking up a ball of creamy string. i don’t bother with the white or blue. the intended drive, an hour in course, to retrieve its twin, discarded now as unnecessary as i slide a solitary bill from my pocket. ooh nice, three quarters in return. oddly the creamy string was there almost as gift. no. gift. not even gently used. nothing rewound, just pristine cream. a kindly gentle weirdness washes over me as a thing finds me instead of me, it. gift. there is a shift, a reminder, to return to listening to this moment instead of memory unwound. attend to the gifts. they do come. they have always come. it is refreshing.