“It’s a fool’s errand to pick off the burs, Paul,” said Bill while, nevertheless, helping me out.
“There, no – right there,“ he said pointing to my shoulder, “and another on your elbow … “ He reached way over, half-standing from the stone he had been sitting on, and picked off a bur from my back. Bill was a helpful guy even if he didn’t believe in a given cause. The kind of guy that would help you collect kindling for a fire under a pouring rain, just to be helpful.
“So, how do you plan to get the burs off, Bill?” I asked in earnest.
“No need to, Paul, they’ll get off on their own, like you do from a Greyhound bus when it’s your stop. A bur is a bundle of seeds. Seeds are alive. All living things know where they are going.
What do you think – they are just being sticky for no reason?!” He chuckled and added: “They know when it’s their stop.”
Indeed, the Universe travels without a GPS. Desire is its own map, its own compass. Burs do get off wherever they want to.
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