Bowl 21: Chris

It's been a difficult few days. . . 

things that I thought were done and tied up neatly

have been unravelling,

falling apart,

plunging me back into uncertainty.

Feeling the sinking in the pit of my stomach

I begin walking,

breathing,

allowing myself to touch back into just this moment

just this step.

I see Chris fishing, his mom nearby.

Although he appears to be no more than 10 or 11

he is a surprisingly knowledgeable and competent fisherman,

Arcing the line far over the water

and pulling it in with adept flicks 

so that it truly seems that a live frog is on the end --

tempting bait for the large-mouthed bass that swim the pond.

"I always throw them back," he tells me. 

I'm very careful with them. Sometimes I have to cut the line and leave the hook,

but the acid in the fish's stomach will dissolve it," he says.

Then I give him the bowl and start to photograph..

"Wait," he says, "wouldn't it look great if I hold it up and you can see the water behind it."

He is absolutely right! Much better than the first few against his shirt.

Later, I encounter the shards of a goddess left three years before.

I walk home.

Things are still unraveling . . .

but I am more at peace with that . . . 

for this moment at least.