Shouldn't…but Do

Sometime last autumn, a plastic shopping bag blew into my yard, up the drive and became trapped against the wooden lattice fence near my  front door.

As the snow built up, the bag quietly disappeared under the weight and brittle cold.  A couple of times this winter, a white corner emerged, camouflaged, only to submerge again with the next snow.  Too cold and tired myself, I could only mark its struggle while attending to my own.

This week both the melt and the spring wind picked up.  The bag shook itself free of its leaden cold weight and attempted flight, only to be hooked by garden chaff, the organic remains of a growing season long dead.

Watching the bag bounce in the wind this morning,  I discussed this bog with the Neighbor and the space it provides for my fears and hopes – my vulnerabilities.

The discussion rose from the likelihood that those no longer associated with me will continue to examine this bog not only with voyeuristic eye,  but with continuing  intent to use my words against me.  Not friend, family, or interested lurker, but those whose company, and attention, I do not prefer.

Though off the beaten path, and of fairly rarefied nature, this is a public bog, all are entitled to visit.  Should I reshape this bog to compensate, to protect against  a wintry mix?  An expert at my own camouflage, should I pale and blend my feelings in fear of exposure to the elements?

Like that thin plastic bag, I have too long been weighed down, shivered and hooked by the detritus of the past.  Perhaps that bag sought safe harbor from impending winter and found itself trapped.  As they say, wherever you go, there you are.

As the Neighbor and I spoke, the importance of authenticity – the daily,  humble practice of conscious self  through writing, working, or just being – shone through.  At that moment the bag, its season of captivity ended,  gave a mighty tug and flew out of the garden,  beyond my yard and out of sight.

Stripped of  blame, most limitations we face are created within. Though some are set at birth, others  take form in snow, detritus, or a former partner.

The wind blows in storms, and blows them out.  Facing wind is better than fearing it.  The bag is  free to pursue its nature, to tumble on down the road, and maybe, just maybe, so am I.