Mother Willow stood on the river bank dangling her fingers in the crystal clear water. Suddenly she heard the moaning groaning sound of someone in terrible pain. She knew immediately it was a man. He was the only living species capable of self-inflicted suffering. She inspected this particular specimen, which had plopped down next to her, trying to discern the cause of his distress. There were no signs of blood sucker bites. He hadn’t been blown over by a gust of wind, nor burned by a blistering sun. No, it was as she had expected, he was fine.
The brain, home of man’s magical mind, is always in a whiz, always on the go. It dashes off here or there without warning, maybe to China or back to the swimming pool scene of its favorite movie. It travels fast, light (despite its personal baggage). Time cannot hold it down. The mind jumps backwards and forwards with the same breezy ease. Always darting from one spot to another. It doesn’t know how to be still. An old song floats out of the radio and, oops, off it goes again. I’m at my first dance in the junior high school gym. Here it lingers, but only for an instant. Flighty, floaty, flaky, fluky. The mind darts about everywhere because, formless, it can never actually be anywhere.