What good are these woes I drag with me through the day, this bag of stones? They slow my walk and tire my back. And yet I grip them so tightly.
O how I try to drop them, and no sooner have I let go than the bag reappears. What is in it? Illusion. The rocks are dry leaves, easily borne.
Each rock, which I thought was its own calamity, is but mist.
Lord, let me truly look at what I carry.
(Letter #1,849)
