As it turns out, I have been hoarding things to tell you. I would say that I have been procrastinating, but that would imply that the stories and photos would have, eventually, made their way on here- perhaps a little later, a little more harried than one would have preferred, but here, nonetheless. No. I'm afraid I have been hoarding, building up mounds of thoughts, photos, projects, and stories to tell you, only to sit on them protectively, waiting for the right time to share them, waiting for one more strand to fall into place, until one more day has passed. Of course, the danger of hoarding is that by the time one works around to parting with one's treasures, the moment has flown and somehow, the wasted potential all of those glittering coins suddenly becomes glaringly apparently. This has been my realization this week as I have flipped through my photos and documents, looking at the cacophony of colors in the leaves, the recipes of squashes, and worst still, the remaining photos from Summer, all hoarded away, waiting. 

I am a miser not of myself, but of the tasks that define me, that lend sustenance to the thought of me: such was my epiphany as my mind began to expand outward, taking in all of the nascent projects which lie scattered about me, all of the tales half spun, all of the photos envisioned but unsnapped. Always more to be begun and done, no sooner is one finished than the mind turns to the next and so they build, accumulating dust, never properly completed through the act of sharing- only hoarded, in the quiet darkness, for fear of somehow losing them in revelation of them. A lonely existence for such things, an incomplete life.

But one can try to change, to part with one small coin at a time, that grudging fearful moment when the coin slips between the fingers and falls free- and hopefully, the lightness that creeps upon one after the fact, the release of letting something go, of something begun and done, properly.

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