Pick a sprig of anger, fresh when plucked in full bloom, and place its small yet precious self across the bottom of the bowl. Then, add seedlings, tender rose-colored resentment, hurt, resignation, pulled from the soil moments before fully taking root. Sprinkle on carefully measured heaps of our favorite flavors, selecting perhaps guilt, shame, perfectionism, rage from the nearby ever-present cupboard. Apply light pressure on the pestle, thinking, twisting, feeling, grinding until smooth lumps of long-forgotten stimuli release acrid odors into the air. Carry the pulverized powder out to the garden and bury its spent power in the sun, transmuted now to nurture new growth, slips and saplings of change. Snip several sprigs of grace, recently grafted onto gratitude, and, placing them in the mortar, grind with peace, joy and freshly harvested hope. Let love emit its honest energies, patient fragrances and open secrets, for they help us learn how accepting and growing, supplanting and serving can always restock our stores.
Terry Shamblin Writes 