That which we hold onto and that for which we continue to reach. Stretching. Growing. Trying. Maybe those things that I was once reaching come along and were in my grasp. Holding onto them I saw no need to reach for more. Content to just sit with what I had. Not knowing the emptiness of holding on. I stopped reaching. I stopped seeking. I don't know when that started. Just a little bit each day perhaps. Building up into nothingness. Pieces being added or taken away. Varnish applied once again.
Stripping away. Sanding. Stripping. Scraping. Filling in the pitted places with putty to make the surface smooth once again. Character in places leaving colored scars deep into the wood.
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