How much was left undone by summer’s end, in the corner of our back yard by the maple tree. The work was coming in again, with everyone coming back from vacations and wanting their things fast-tracked, rush jobs. Learning all I could to make myself an expert about things I didn’t know—and how much there was to learn still. How many days of my life had passed where I learned nothing. Nothing about politics or social injustice, about plants or books or the meaning of things. Surely not about myself, the one subject I should know the most about, or be the most interested in. Paradoxically, that subject was too close to study—the filters got in the way, the filters of ego that distort. Instead I went to the back yard to read and unwind, and it was there I stood outside of myself and felt a peace looking down, unable to see the surface that always distracts.