![]() I snap off the beret and whack the nut open atop my desk with the heel of a shoe. What a smart worm - inside the nut it found food and shelter. In this particular acorn there is a tiny hole, no doubt the entrance for a worm. Could a painter create colors more artfully juxtaposed - the reddish brown of the cap, the slightly more dusky brown of the shell, the darker gray-brown of the tiny spike at the bottom, and the woody stem at the top? The acorn’s textures are so sensuously varied - the bumpy but silky feel of the top, the slightly corrugated but smooth feel of the shell, the sharp prick of the spike at the bottom, the rough scratchiness of the nubbin on top. ![]() A master knitter would be challenged to improve upon such a design. The perfect pattern of overlapping triangles that decorate this nut’s tawny top defies any human craftsman. This particular acorn is the ruddy, burly, fruit of the exquisite red oak. I pick one from the dish of paperclips on my desk. Let us, just for a moment, consider the acorn. The natural objects you bring home to tuck into the nooks of your life are your direct line to something awesome and holy - call it nature. ![]() The objects remind you that there is indeed something powerful and wondrous at work in a realm that you, despite your efforts and years, understand so little about. The next time you stroll to the mailbox, walk through a park, or along a wooded trail, mosey beside the seashore, a lake, or a pond, imagine all those voices - pebbles, feathers, nuts and seed pods, bones, pinecones, shells and leaves - clamoring for your attention, buzzing with the hum of life that flows through us all. Is it really so absurd to think such a thing? Japanese stone artists, after all, believe that the key to their artistry is listening to the voice of the stone. Sometimes it might occur to you that the supposedly inanimate object itself drew you to it - calling to you pick me up, bring me home. Sometimes you wonder why that stone, why that flower, that leaf caught your eye. Never mind: these natural objects still ground you and speak to you of the joy of attending to the world’s beautiful, small things. You vowed that the object would serve as a memento of a certain place, a certain day, a certain slant of light, a felt sense, the person you were with. When you decided to bring them home you promised you would never forget where you found them. You try to remember where they came from. ![]() ![]() You often find your pant and coat pockets, the zippered compartments of your daypack, the window sills in your kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, your desktop (at home and work), the edges of your bookshelves, and the corners of your porch stocked with stones, cones, nuts, feathers, dried leaves, and seed pods. If you are a collector of such things you know what I’m talking about. Yes, there are plenty of natural treasures to match the acorn, but none to outshine. There are plenty of natural objects to match the acorn, of course: a silk-smooth, palm-sized, heart-shaped stone a bit of bright blue–speckled bird shell a finely sculpted pinecone, its edges frosted with pungent sap a tiny bleached skull of a mouse at the bottom of the woodpile a brilliant pink shard of crab shell an imaginative stick curved in the shape of a woman’s dancing body the husk of a spiky brown beechnut, splayed open like a tulip, the nut itself carted off to some squirrel’s winter pantry a tiny bird’s nest woven of birch bark, pine needles, and blue baling twine and oh! - a bright red feather from the wing of a scarlet tanager. Is there anything more perfect than an acorn with its jaunty beret, its burnished shell so much like the shape of a human face - wide at the forehead, tapering down to an excellent chin? What is more intricate and delicate than the designs on that clever hat - small triangles of hardened brown or green, layered over one another endlessly to create a design and texture of Fibonacci perfection, as appealing as any woven cloth? ![]()
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