I had a dream a few nights ago that I was standing before a huge fallen tree, some sixteen metres in width and hollow, with a bemused expression on my face. In my dream I was wondering how I could possibly right the trunk. My plan was apparently to cut it off about eighteen metres from the stump, and then lever it upright so that I might roof over the hollow chamber and then make it a two floor house or cabin. I envisioned pulleys and counterweights, and leverage and chainsaws.
Significantly, at no time did I fear the task was impossible. I spent a moment pondering whether I wanted to do it, but not a second considering it to be impossible. For many who know me, this would come as no surprise. I am interested in these types of feats of physical and engineering prowess, what we might call the action of the mind upon the physical world. The building of my 
boat would be one such enterprise, as well as the cabin in which I am writing this pensive account. Even my books are seen more as a product of endurance rather than torturous reflection and intellectual virtuosity.
In fact, manipulation of the physical world is pathetically easy. The laws of physics are available to all and we use them daily in even the most mundane of our activities. We kick a door closed behind us, entrusting its stored momentum to complete the action, lean into the curve on a motorcycle, using centripetal force to keep us upright. The mere exercise of those laws, the strain of them in the physical world, is of increasingly less concern. I think now about other ways in which the world is evidenced upon my senses which no amount of leverage can force to my will.
This past year I had a relationship end sadly, and from my point of view, suddenly. Perhaps because of the way it evaporated, I was left with less in my hands than I would have thought. I am confronted once again how unnecessary I am to the lives of those I hold dear, and approach many of my relationships with suspicion where once I was assured of their solidity.
Old friends seem to merely suffer my existence and I am drawn to the memory of those who have already parachuted out of my fragile and loosely arranged friendship group.
The shining light in this are two new friends, as though more were needed to fill the gap, who rushed in and became a comfort against the late spring storms and winter squalls. I have nothing to offer these two, and perhaps that is why I trust them more. They come to me, I am by times convinced, for me and me alone, instead of the many ways in which I can be called upon to right a tree, offer psychological solace, build or break something, lend money, and all the other ways in which I have been of service. These two beautiful people will no doubt disappear from my life like so many others, but I don’t live in eager anticipation of that. Instead I cling to an afternoon spent with trust and compassion, one bright memory against a torrent of use, avarice, and thoughtlessness.
By contrast, the righting of a hollow tree seems easy.
