I could heat a hamlet in Kansas with the amount of energy I consume trying not to lose things. Three times a day my treasured hori-hori is misplaced in some garden, sometimes for seconds, sometimes minutes. If the minutes congeal into chunks of time, I stop what I am doing and look. Sometimes I find it right away. Sometimes I spend embarrassing amounts of time crawling like a metal-sensing robot over the garden. Sometimes I find it buried in the green bin. But I find it; I am a success. I have had this particular hori-hori so long that the serration is worn smooth. John asks when I’m going to buy a new one and I look at him in wonder. How can he even ask that question?
I can only see this as getting worse, unless I begin a serious practice of nonattachment, soon as I find my glasses.