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:
feeling the feelings…
1 year ago