Reading through the section of Dillard's work reminded me of a poem I wrote towards the beginning of high school. Until then, I'd been one of those people who stopped to pick up dropped change no matter its worth (or lack thereof). I'm not entirely sure when that changed. I've recently gotten back into the habit, but that might just be because I'm a college student and any money is welcome.
Lost Pennies
I look upon the ground
as I continue on my way.
How many times that I've
walked by have I seen that penny?
Long ago I would have stopped,
taken time to pick it up,
but now I simply let it rest,
its worth no longer calling.
When did the world diminish such
that I no longer care?
When did the world change so that
the small things do not matter?
We stumble through our lives
seeing only large successes.
We wonder why we are unhappy
when the truth lies just before us.
Perhaps next time I see that penny,
I'll pause to pick it up.
Who knows, I say, what simple things
may return into our lives?
If we begin to care again
about such little gestures
will the world come full circle
and become again its past?
as I continue on my way.
How many times that I've
walked by have I seen that penny?
Long ago I would have stopped,
taken time to pick it up,
but now I simply let it rest,
its worth no longer calling.
When did the world diminish such
that I no longer care?
When did the world change so that
the small things do not matter?
We stumble through our lives
seeing only large successes.
We wonder why we are unhappy
when the truth lies just before us.
Perhaps next time I see that penny,
I'll pause to pick it up.
Who knows, I say, what simple things
may return into our lives?
If we begin to care again
about such little gestures
will the world come full circle
and become again its past?
After the Mammalian piece, I found myself looking up this "Last Resort Bra," because I was interested in its alleged existence. Lo and behold, it does exist, but it's breast-ist against those of us smaller than a C cup. Apparently we don't need total immobilization.
Then I got to the On Pests piece. A page or two in and I had to stop reading to go and quell the trouble brewing in my stomach. I hate bees. I was okay with them until I was about 7. I was okay with them until one Fourth of July on a hillside when a group of wasps decided it was a good idea to make their nest on the ground. Where a 7-year-old watching fireworks could step on it. In the dark. With no warning as to what they were about to experience.
Since then, I freeze up exactly like the niece does; rigid, arms clamped to the sides with clenched fists, eyes closed, often shaking. I can't come out of it until a minute or two has passed since the buzzing has faded. Actually having one land on me? Hysterics.
I wouldn't have batted an eyelash over the decision to get rid of the damned things. I don't care if they're "gentle" or "harmless" unless provoked. Bees are perpetually provoked. End of story.
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