I notice it in the old oak glade, where the light cuts through the leaves. It feels like a quiet heart of the forest, a spot that reminds me of seasons turning. I get a pull there, a sense that it’s part of me, just as a chipped mug becomes part of a person’s story. When that place is disturbed, the calm cracks, and I feel the same frustration I get when plans go off track. It’s a quiet reminder that attachment can both anchor and blind us.