I’ve been thinking how nice it would be to package all my worries in lovely boxes and put them up for sale. Sturdy boxes of all sizes and shapes, with seductively-patterned wrapping paper, of the very finest quality.
Enchanting boxes with brightly-colored ribbons, tied lovingly with a perfect corkscrew swirl at the end. Hopeful boxes waiting anxiously to be discovered by just the right person, someone who will be happy to adopt them as their own.
I can just imagine the tremendous relief, not only relief in letting go of things I no longer need, but in helping old friends find welcoming new homes. And I can also imagine the consummate joy of at last being free of what binds me.
Of course, that’s assuming someone else will actually want to buy my worries. And that I, in turn, don’t find myself wandering around the well-stocked Worry Store, tempted at every turn by what others are selling. So many pretty packages calling to me.
But then packaging can be so deceptive. And empty spaces so often clamor to be filled again by new friends who feel a lot like those we once knew.