Paper

 accidental self-portrait

My six-year-old is reading and writing now. 

She writes lists (things, plans, ideas) and love notes. 

One day she wrote me this... 

Magic is rel. I love you. You or the best. wrc to gevr. You or the best! dep breaths

Translation...

Magic is real. I love you. You are the best. Work together. You are the best! Deep breaths. 

There are so many papers - school exercises, sketches, and letters. What to keep and what to discard? Some days I want to save every scrap. Other days, I frame a piece and recycle the rest. 

As the earth spins, we sleep and wake and sleep and wake and sleep, and as we live, the cells of our bodies die and are reborn and die and are reborn again and again and again, and all the while, our souls are either hiding or seeking, and all the while, the materials (the paper especially) are tricking me into believing that it is time. But only time can be time. It is unlike anything and yet a part of everything. And while it churns along with the oceans and lands and winds, I practice presence, learning more deeply that most of the things we save are simply souvenirs. 

I will forget so much. And that is what it is. I don't need to remember every love note, just that we loved.