Last night one of the units in our complex caught on fire. Nobody was hurt, and the damage was minimal, but it had me considering which of my possessions were worth rescuing.
The only thing I could think of? My little old book of Wordsworth's poetry. Published somewhere between the late 1800s and the mid 1900s, and written circa 1790-1845, I bought it for $2 at a Lifeline Bookfest and it's now one of my dearest companions.
It really hit me that most of our "stuff" is so meaningless and unnecessary. All I need is Neil and a few lines of verse, and the world is mine.
Wings have we -- and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness grow.
-- From 'Personal Talk' by William Wordsworth
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Carla: You are so right. Material possessions are of minimalist importance. The mind's eye sees all within. The intellectual reach far outweighs the materialist grasp. Jen
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