Magic Beans

You ask me for advice on tying up loose ends, and I tell you that I'm not sure I've ever in my whole life tied up a pair of loose ends, that my life is not tidy in that way. It's more like a field, I tell you...like a field where the crop isn't wheat or corn or barley but, sprouting from the ground, connections. To people and places and moments in time. And me? I spend my time wandering that field, noting how different it is from one spot to the next. Here, where there's nothing but shade, are just dried dandelions and dead leaves. Over there, where it rains, but the sun hides behind the clouds now and again, are delicate blades of grass, and bits of moss on wet stones. Way over there, where the sun shines, every single day, and the rain starts falling at dusk...where the worms and the birds and the bees love to gather? Over there are sunflowers with tall, tall stalks, and poppies and, where a stream runs through that area, there's wild, hardy asparagus. That's where the magic beans were dropped, so long ago, and where a beanstalk has pushed its way out of the soil, and now chases the sun, straight into the sky. It is the place where I stop and sit and lean my tired bones when walking around this field gets to be exhausting.

I wouldn't know how to tie up loose ends if I tried.