Every spring I tie knots--some for fishing, a rare one for clamming, but plenty for the peas and beans that climb in my garden.
Every year around this time, when the sun has returned and the earth comes alive again, I tie knot after knot, one of the few things I do consciously and mindfully, aware of the moment, tied to so many moments before.
I couldn't find my ball of twine, so I untied some of last year's knots holding last year's twine still hanging on the bean poles, then stripped the dried vines off.
Untying work from last year to tie together this year, a year of change, a year of reminders that I have tied far more knots in the past than I will in the future.
The peas and beans that climb this year's twine are not the same as the ones that climbed last year, but the rhythm is the same, as it has been for generations, and as it will be for generations so long as a few humans remain tied to the earth.
Each knot is as personal as one's hands, and as fleeting.