The Beggar's Bowl

Each year when I visit Mepkin Abbey, I go to the huge sculptures carved when two ancient trees toppled.

I am struck by this woman and her beggar's bowl.

Each year, the bowl holds something different.  This year, it was a painted rock amongst the coins and stones.

Some years, there are more coins.

One year, there was a cross.

Another year, in deepest winter, the bowl held Spanish moss and petals from a decaying flower:

I think of her face each time I see a homeless person at an intersection, a cardboard sign instead of a begging bowl.

I think of the weariness carved into wood, the weariness we all carry: