We humans are collectors ever.
Grasping after outward things to give us more power or sense of Self in a world of Others.
We collect our “things” in albums, bookcases, wallets, houses, bank vaults, jewellery boxes, gardens, kennels, stables, wardrobes, Sainsbury shopping trolleys.
They give us our sense of being “someone”.
We use them to convince others that we are “someone”.
They also give us our fear of “not being enough”.
Grasping after inward things to give us a sense of identity, individuality, personality.
We collect our inward things in our minds. We collect thoughts, memories opinions, emotions, regrets, grievances, plans, hopes.
Asked for a couple of carrots from the garden, we bring our wheelbarrow, full of our garden produce (in which there may even be a carrot or two). Asked for the time of day, we will bring a minute by minute account of our yesterdays and tomorrows.
The wheelbarrow is our egoic self. The overflowing contents are the contents of our mind, to which we cling with all the pride and fear of a child in the middle of the elaborate sandcastle, which it has spent all day creating and defending against the other children. As the shadows lengthen, it casts increasingly apprehensive glances at the incoming tide (as well as the other children).
FORGIVE a pronoun’s entry
along a spine,
a suddenly separate spider sentry
wanting to define
his continent of cells,
a more than mother brother.
Like whispering shells
sharing a spark
the sun let fall into their dark.